


Kärlek är Smärtsamt (Love is Painful)

by LukaTheSelkie



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22913923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LukaTheSelkie/pseuds/LukaTheSelkie
Summary: Finland is no longer obtainable to Sweden. France wants to help, as he has experienced the pain of losing the one he loves as well, but Sweden is persistent. He doesn’t want to be rational. He doesn’t want to feel loved. He wants to be touched and pleasured and leave, no strings attached. But France isn’t very willing to let that happen, until England convinces him to. Sweden is convinced love can only be horrible, especially when the one he might have the smallest bit of a crush on (after Finland) gets back together with an ex. He refuses to fall for anyone ever again, much to France’s displeasure. To one, love is everything, to the other, love can only cause pain.England only wants what is best for both of them, but that leaves him feeling like he’s playing sides. Sweden obviously feels like he needs to sleep around to stop any feelings from forming, but France wants him to try romance again. He feels stuck in the middle; one big push in the right direction for France, two small hops in the right direction for Sweden. There is no gaining ground for either of them, and the tensions start rising. Trying to balance it out doesn’t work either, as he discovers something he thought impossible.
Relationships: England/France/Sweden, England/France/Sweden (Hetalia)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

“Sweden?” The country jumps ever so slightly when he is called, not having expected it. He is waiting for the room to clear out a bit after a World Meeting before moving. He glances up, and furrows his brows when he sees France. He lets out a grunt to let him know he has his attention. “I noticed Finland is with someone else now? That has to hurt. I know how much you cared for him. Are you okay?”

“J-ja. I am f’ne. Why w’ldn’t I be?” France frowns. Sweden looks away from him quickly, cheeks tinting pink. France cups his cheek softly, and turns his head until their eyes lock. He sighs, and wipes at the small amount of tears spilling from his eyes.

“Completely fine, then?” He scoffs when the larger country nods. “Sweden, it’s okay to be hurting. I… know what it’s like to lose the one you love.” He glances toward America, Russia, England, and China, who are talking amongst themselves. “This isn’t likely to help, but I am here for you. If you wish to speak, or do other things, I will be there to comfort you. Anything you need. Everyone deserves to feel loved. Even a big, intimidating guy like you. _Especially_ a big, intimidating guy like you. Don’t think you have to suffer alone. There are people here for you, even if you might not think that. I’m here for you.”

He runs his hand down Sweden’s side, causing the larger male to shudder a bit. France smiles ever so slightly. “Someone’s a bit touch-starved, oui?” The Nordic turns his head away quickly, shaking his head. France tugs on his ear slightly. “That’s why you’re blushing, then?” When he gets no response, he sighs quietly. “Okay.” He pulls his hand away slowly. “Sweden? If you need anything, I’m here. That includes hugs or massages or to talk to someone or whatever. It’s not healthy to go so long without being touched. Or without conversing.” After a few moments longer without acknowledgement, he turns and walks away solemnly. At least he tried.

~

France furrows his brows when he hears a knock at his door, later that night. He isn’t expecting company, and he is wearing next to nothing, having just gotten out of the shower. He peers through the peephole, and gasps in surprise and shock when he sees Sweden on the other side. He glances down at what he is wearing—just boxers—and figures he should change first, even if he knows Sweden likely wouldn’t mind. He unlocks the door and cracks it a bit. “Please, come in! I will be right back. I just got out of the shower, you see, so I’m not wearing very mu-“ He is enveloped by a tight hug. He wiggles a bit, trying to get loose, but a quiet sob is enough to still him. He wraps his arms around Sweden reassuringly. “Hey. Shh. It’s okay. I’m here, oui? You can talk to me as much as you need to. Can I just get dressed fir-“

“Nej. Cl’thes off.” The larger male pulls away, and tugs off his cloak. France hurries to grab his wrists, and looks into his eyes.

“Hey now. Don’t do anything you might regret, okay? I know you’re hurting, and I know you want the pain to go away. But sleeping around isn’t the way to do it. You won’t feel the love you need that way.” France carefully releases one wrist, and brings his hand up to remove Sweden’s glasses. He stands as still as a statue as he does, and doesn’t even flinch when France wipes away his tears. He sighs softly. “See? You’re hurting. Irrational thoughts enter our heads when we’re hurting. Don’t make a mistake. Don’t sleep around. It won’t make anything better. I… I know.” He bows his head quickly. “I know how much it hurts. How desperately you want to feel loved right now. But sex isn’t the answer to that. Think rationally. Think about what sort of reputation you might ge-“

He is silenced by soft, warm lips on his. They aren’t desperate or needy. They’re gentle, almost caring. They’re gone before he can even register what happened. “Th’n I w’ll sleep w’th only one p’rson. You s’d yours’lf, you kn’w the pain. L’t me ind’lge in it. L’t me m’ke st’pid, irr’tional d’cisions w’th only you. One p’rson won’t g’ve me a r’put’tion. I w’n’t be the one th’t’s easy t’ get in b’d w’th if it’s j’st w’th you.” He closes his eyes tightly. The expression on his face breaks France’s heart. He sets the glasses on the coffee table nearby. He can’t say no after that. Irrational thought would definitely take over. At least he knows how to make someone feel loved, even if there is no love there. He sighs heavily. He really has no choice, does he? In place of verbally answering Sweden, he presses his lips to his soundly.

~

The next morning, France kisses Sweden’s cheek as he gets out of bed. He had sort of expected the man to leave, but he’s slightly happy he didn’t. He can make him breakfast now, after all. Breakfast is a wonderful way to make someone feel loved. He ruffles the Swede’s hair, smiling slightly. He always thought he was an early riser. It’s kind of cute that he isn’t. He hurries to the kitchen. He doesn’t know how long it will be before he does wake up, after all. He makes fresh bread, and sets out an arrangement of jams, honey, and butter. He makes them both instant coffee, and leaves Sweden’s black so he can make it to his liking. Just as he pulls the bread out, he hears fumbling behind him. He turns and smiles at the naked Sweden, who is tackling the coffee like his life depends on it. He chuckles at the sight as he cuts the bread. “Bonjour! Did you sleep well?”

“Ja,” is practically grunted at him. France makes a mental note that Sweden is not a morning person. “You?” He swallows down his coffee in seemingly one gulp. France hurries to make him more.

“Mm, I slept well! It’s been awhile since I’ve had someone stay in my bed with me. You are very warm. It was nice being by your side.” He notices Sweden’s cheeks tint pink before he turns his head away. He suddenly realizes he likes making this big, supposedly intimidating man blush. It’s incredibly easy, and it is rather cute. “What? Are you shy? I’m just talking about our sleeping arrangements. I’m not even talking about what happened before.” Sweden grunts, and bows his head.

“I’m n’t b’ng shy.”

“Really? Seems to me like you are.”

“Nej.” He clears his throat softly. “Wh’t is th’s?” He motions at the breakfast set out on the table. France’s eyes widen slightly. Swedish breakfast is much different than French breakfast!

“Ah! Breakfast. I forgot that it’s much different than what you’re used to. I suppose you can try a French breakfast? Though if you prefer it, I can make a Swedish breakfast? I’ll just need information on what to ma-“

“Nej.” He blushes harder, and France swears he can see the faintest of smiles forming on his lips. “Tack.” He takes a slice of the bread, and butters it. He chooses honey to spread over the butter, and France watches as he does so easily. He takes a second slice of the bread, butters it as well, and attempts to spread strawberry jam over it. France walks over to him quietly after watching him struggle for a solid minute.

“You have to be gentle with it. Jam won’t spread as easily as honey.” He takes Sweden’s hand in his own. “See? Gentle. It’s much easier this way.” They spread the jam over the butter flawlessly. Well, mostly France, but Sweden’s hand is there. “You don’t eat jam for breakfast, do you?”

“Nej. I’m n’t used t’ a sweet br’kfast like th’s. I eat smörgås. S’mewhat sweet br’kfasts do ex’st, but I don’t p’rtake in th’m often. And the j’m is st’ck in Gröt.” France blinks at him. He flushes a bit, realizing he didn’t use the English names for a couple of things. “Smörgås b’ng sandw’ches, Gröt b’ng p’rridge.” France nods slowly, understanding now.

“I see. But you want this breakfast?” He motions at the table. Sweden flushes, but nods. France finds himself smiling. “You’re cuter than I thought you would be.” He notices his cheeks turn red. “Oh, don’t blush, mon chéri! You’ll make me want to protect you more than I already do. You’re not as scary as they think. Nowhere near it. You’re honestly a big sweetheart.” He reaches across the table and takes Sweden’s hand in his own. He squeezes softly, trying to be reassuring. “Anyone would be lucky to have you. I don’t know why no one took you the moment they figured out you and Finland are no longer together.” He runs his thumb over the back of his hand sweetly.

“Do you like someone? Denmark, perhaps?” The scowl on his face makes him flinch back just a bit. “Okay, not Denmark. I just assumed… He’s constantly trying to impress you. I thought maybe he has a crush on you. But ignore me, I’m only going off of the interactions I’ve seen. What about Norway? He seems more your type. Gentle, caring, quiet.” The look of fear on his face is enough to get France to cup his cheeks with both hands. “Sorry! I suppose not, then. I had no idea he was so scary.” He pulls his hands away slowly. “There has to be someone single that you like. Others that are close by, perhaps? Germany?” Silence. “I’ll put that in the maybe list. Poland?” A scowl. “Nope. Netherlands?” A look of shock spreads over his features. “Aha! Netherlands it is, then! I’ll help you woo him.”

“Fr’nce, Nej, I d’n’t-“

“Non! Say no more! Hurry and eat, then go get dressed! Or don't, depending on how fast you want him to notice you sexually. You are rather attractive under those clothes.” He does a once over with his eyes, and Sweden flushes red all the way down his chest. France chuckled softly. “So easy to embarrass. I’ll be sure to relay that information. Now! Please, eat.” He smiles sweetly at him, and prepares his own food. They eat in a comfortable silence.

~

Sweden gapes at the front door to Netherlands’ house. France is incredibly persistent, he’ll give him that. He shakes his head, before gently being shoved toward the door. “Go on! He knows someone’s coming for a date. I didn’t tell him who, of course, but he is aware you’re coming. I told him I had a blind date for him! Now go be yourself!” Sweden turns and runs. France slumps a bit in sorrow. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed him to move on so quickly. He quietly walks to the door, knocks, and apologizes for his blind date running off from anxiety.

~

Sweden returns to France’s house that night, with a suitcase in tow. France just stares at him. “Wh’t?”

“You came back. And you intend to stay? I thought I messed up.” Sweden sighs softly.

“Ja. You s’rt of d’d. But you j’st w’nt me t’ be h’ppy. We c’n try again? J’st n’t with N’therl’nds. He and D’n are close.” He turns his head away slightly. “And I d’n’t like h’m like th’t. I c’rr’ntly only l’ke F’nland l’ke that. B’t a repeat of l’st night w’ld be n’ce? If you w’nt to, of c’rse.”

“I don’t mind. Besides, if I’m not here to keep you from sleeping around, who else is? It’s good you’re staying. I can keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t do anything rash, and you can stay away from Finland. I know you need that. It’s hard to get over someone when you’re constantly seeing them.” He smiles softly. After a moment, there’s a knock on the door. “Oh yes! England is coming over to eat tonight. You can stay in my room if you wish, or you can eat with us.” He glances at the door, remembering what France said about losing the one he loved. It has to be England. Right?

“Nej. I w’ll go out t’ eat. Tack f’r letting me st’y. I’ll be b’ck l’ter.” He brushes past France, and puts the suitcase in a guest room. He waits until he hears France and England chatting in the kitchen to slip out. The moment the cool air hits his face, he pulls out his phone to call Denmark. “D’n’t speak. J’st m’t me at our usual dr’nking pl’ce.” He ends the call, and hurries to the bar.

He has downed two shots of vodka before Denmark sits next to him, and someone else joins a moment later, making the Dane the middle of a sandwich. Sweden’s mind catches on the thought, and he orders himself a sandwich to eat, along with more vodka. “Woah there Berry. How much have you had to drink?” Instead of answering, he downs the third shot glass like it’s water. Denmark sighs. “Well. I see you are upset. Is it Tino?” At the name, the Swede orders a fourth shot of vodka. “Alright. So it is.” He watches the drink go down. “Berry, you’re going to get blackout drunk at this rate.”

“Th’t’s the point,” he grumbles, before biting into his sandwich. Denmark sighs heavily.

“Berry, you know that’s unhealthy. You can’t just drink away your problems. You have to-“ He is cut off by a hand squeezing his thigh. His breath hitches, and he watches a spark ignite in Sweden’s eye.

“So he w’s right,” he muses quietly.

“Who was right? Get your hand off of me.” He shoves lightly at the hand, but Sweden shakes his head.

“Nej. You l’ke it. Because you l’ke me.” Denmark feels the colour drain from his face. He glances to his left, at the person that came with him into the bar.

“D-don’t be ridiculous! Who told you that?” Sweden shrugs.

“Fr’nce. I th’nk he's r’ght.” He trails his hand up Denmark’s thigh. He doesn’t resist, though he desperately wants to, but only in his mind. His body and his heart are completely on board with the idea.

“H-hey now. Stop that! You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re doing. Gilbert, please, t-tell him to stop.” Sweden’s head snaps up, and he looks at the third person for the first time. Prussia waves awkwardly at him, and he yanks his hand away from Denmark’s thigh. “Thank you, Berry,” he whispers. He grunts in reply, and orders drinks for all three of them.

~

At some point, they all wind up at Denmark’s private home. Sweden presses Denmark up against a wall, and kisses him hard on the mouth. He revels in the desperate whimper this pulls out of him, and hikes his legs up and around his waist. When he feels Prussia rutting against him from behind, he lets out a hearty moan, tossing his head back. Denmark takes the opportunity to leave a hickey on his neck. Then another. And another. Sweden loses count at twenty three, when Prussia slips his hand into his underwear and gives his erection a solid squeeze. This causes him to moan again, and he wiggles his hips slightly. “Bed,” Denmark pleads desperately, and Sweden shuffles to Den’s bedroom, being careful not to drop him and not to go so fast Prussia loses his grip.

~

Sweden wakes up surrounded by warmth. He keeps his eyes closed, and cuddles backwards into one section of warmth, and pulls the other close to him using his arms. Hair brushes against his nose, and the memories of the night before flood back to him. He turns crimson in a blush, and buries his face in the crook of Denmark’s neck. Prussia shifts behind him, and he can feel his morning wood greeting the back of his thigh. His stomach flips in want. But he promised France he wouldn’t sleep around! He rolls over so he is facing Prussia. At least he can’t want if there’s nothing poking him. That thought doesn’t even finish before his stomach flips again. The pale man is covered in dark bruises. A smile twitches at his lips. He made most of those!

Germany is going to kill him. France is going to kill him. Denmark might, depending on if he’s still drunk or not. He feels a soft kiss on the back of his neck. Or he might want a tenth round. “Godmorgen. Ready to go again? Wake Gilbert, will you?” Sweden presses his lips to Prussia’s, until he sees those stunning red eyes flutter open. “Ah! Godmorgen, Gil! I think it’s time we did what we talked about last night, don’t you?” A nod, and suddenly Sweden is being pressed to the bed by both of them. He flushes crimson when he realizes he is to bottom to them both at the same time.

~

Sweden quietly knocks on the door to France’s home. He flinches when England opens the door. Secretly he had hoped he wouldn’t stay over. If he didn’t, that meant nothing had happened between him and France. But since he had, obviously it meant the two had made up whatever difference they had before. And what better way to make up than have sex all night? He tries his hardest not to let his expression show the falling pit in his stomach. “Sweden?” England looks and sounds very confused. For good reason, he supposes. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah! Amour! Sweden is here for help. I’m sure you noticed, but he and Finland are no longer together. I thought it might be nice of me, the country of love, to teach him how to love again, oui? Heartbreak truly is the worst.” The happy spring in France’s step is enough to confirm his suspicions.

“Nej, n’verm’nd.” He gives France the most apologetic look he can muster. “I c’n come b’ck. I w’s unaw’re you had c’mpany. D’n’t let me g’t in the w’y.”

“Nonsense! You aren’t in the way at all.” Judging by England’s expression, that’s a lie. Sweden shakes his head, apologizes again, grabs the doorknob, and turns to walk away as he closes it. The door gets maybe half way closed before he limps. “Berwald Oxenstierna. You get your ass in here right now and tell me why you are limping like you’ve had sex. I **told** you not to sleep around!” Sweden quickly limps his way inside, too scared of the tone of France’s voice to even try running. “How could you?! I thought you were doing well! I can’t believe you! Who was it?” Sweden glances at England, who looks just as uncomfortable as he feels. “Non. I will not send him away. He has heard much worse, and you need to realize your actions have consequences. So tell me who. Now.”

“D’nm’rk and Pr’ss’,” he mumbles miserably.

“Excuse me? Speak a bit louder.”

“D’nm’rk and Pr’ssia,” he says in a normal tone of voice. “At the s’me t’me.” France’s expression hardens, then softens, then hardens more than it did the first time.

“No wonder you’re limping! Go, take a bath. I’ll prepare you some things that will help while you do. And take some painkillers before you get in! They’re on the counter in the bathroom. Now go! Shew!” He motions him toward the bathroom, and he goes without a word. France sighs heavily once he’s in there. “I’m sorry you had to hear that. I’m trying to help him. I really am. But he doesn’t seem to want the help.”

“He’s heart broken, Francis. If he wants to sleep around, you should let him sleep around.” France opens his mouth to protest. “Shush. Don’t say anything. I know how you are. You offered to be his frustration relief, didn’t you? You’re going to get yourself hurt doing that. Or hurt him, it seems. Let him learn for himself. You don’t have an obligation to make everyone that’s hurting because of love want to be romantic again. Sometimes it takes getting used and used and used to teach a lesson. It’s Sweden. He’s an ex Viking. Do you really think your ways are going to apply to him the same way they do most of the others? Of course not. From what little I know about him, he’s not the type to think rationally when hurt. That’s perfectly fine, Francis. You have to accept that. Keeping him tied to one person when he wants to explore is only hurting both of you. Let him go. But tell him he’s always welcome back when he’s ready to find actual love again.”

“You’re right,” France sighs heavily. “I know you’re right, but that doesn’t mean I’m very willing to accept it. But I will. For his sake. For our sake. Je t'aime, Angleterre. I just hope he can find someone to love, one day.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sweden crawls into his own bed for the first time in months. His heart feels less heavy than it did when he started his adventure, and he knows continuing it will be good for him. It’s been a long time since he felt so free. Maybe Finland finding someone new was the best thing that could have happened. A lump catches in his throat, and he curls up into a tight ball under his blanket. Finland finding someone new is the absolute worst thing that could have happened! He wants to throw something, to destroy something, but there is nothing nearby for him to grab. Instead, he just sobs. He ignores the knock at his bedroom door, assuming it’s Denmark or Norway come to check on him. He’s not seen either in two months, so it’s normal for them to worry. But the voice that floats to him is neither of theirs, and he is instantly on alert. “Sweden? Are you in there? Sorry to intrude, but I asked Denmark, Iceland, and Norway to inform me if you returned to the shared home. You’re here now, and we need to talk.”

“G’ away, Fr’nce!”

“I can’t simply go away. I need to talk to you. Please, Sweden. You’re getting a reputation. Russia wants to sleep with you now. That’s not good. That’s never good. He wants you to become one with him, which you’re likely to do. He wants your land, Sweden. Don’t say yes to him.” Sweden sighs heavily, and fumbles out of his blankets. He walks to the door, unlocks it, and pushes it open. “Oh thank goodness! You’re ready to listen to-You look awful.” He reaches out and cups Sweden’s cheek, wiping away his tears. “Are you really still hurting this much? It’s been seven months, Sweden. I thought our weekly meetings were helping. But you’re as broken as ever.” He pulls him into a tight hug, which he doesn’t return.

“I d’n’t enjoy b’ng c’lled br’ken.” He shoves the man away, and stalks back over to his bed. “Go. H’me.” France sighs heavily, and follows after him. He sits next to Sweden, too close for comfort.

“I will do no such thing until you promise you will not sleep with Russia. And that our weekly meetings are going to become daily meetings. When’s the last time you took proper care of yourself? During the same day. That means showering, including washing your hair and body, brushing your hair, brushing your teeth, putting on deodorant and cologne, things like that. Things that make you feel better. When was the last day you did everything I just mentioned during the same standing period? Or even on the same day?” When he gets no response, he reaches out and runs his fingers through Sweden’s messy hair. He scowls when his fingers come away greasy. “How long has it been since you properly washed your hair? No dry shampoo bullshit. Was it the last time we saw each other? Sweden, it’s been six days!”

“L’nger,” he mumbles regretfully. “Two w’ks,” he practically whispers out. France nearly falls off the bed in shock. “And s’nce b’fore F’nland l’ft f’r doing ev’rything in the s’me day.” The Frenchman clicks his tongue, and he stands up.

“Well, that changes today! You’re going to come back with me so your nosy family isn’t butting into what I’m doing, and I’m going to give you a bath, wash and brush your hair, watch you brush your teeth, and help you feel better about yourself. We can even get you a new cologne you like! Something only you like, not Finland as well. You have to focus on cutting him out of your daily routine. Don’t try to impress him with the things you do anymore. As unfortunate as it is, he is no longer yours to love. Someone else has that pleasure. You should let someone else love you again.”

“Nej.” He scoots away from France, and curls himself back up in his blanket. “L’ve is p’nful! L’ve only br’ngs s’ffering!” France feels his heart break just a bit.

“Non, ma douce. Love is beautiful. Everyone deserves love. It is something so very special. True love will never bring you pain. Only happiness. There might be times where anxieties kick in, but true love will always work through it. You just haven’t found your true love yet. Let me help you find them.” Sweden pulls his blanket even tighter around himself. “Non? Then at least let me help you take proper care of yourself. You don’t have to worry about love today. Only yourself. Care about what you want, and only that. Do you think you’re strong enough to do that for me?” Sweden pokes his head out of the little fort, his glasses askew. He nods slowly, cheeks tinted pink. France reaches out and puts his glasses back in place, and smiles at him. “Good! Merci for trying. I know that it takes a lot sometimes. You can bring your blanket with you. Denmark informed me he washed it yesterday, so it should be clean enough for you to cuddle under when you get out of the bath. Will you stand for me?” He does as he is told, a bit apprehensively. “Good! Merci!” He ruffles his hair. “Now take my hand while we go to my home?” He holds his hand out, and Sweden grabs his wrist. He decides it’s close enough not to complain, and leads him out, avoiding Denmark, Iceland, and Norway.

~

Sweden stares at England when he walks into France’s house. “You d’dn’t inf’rm me he w’s here.”

“I knew you wouldn’t come if you knew he would be here.” France bows his head slightly. “I’m sorry for not telling you though. That was wrong of me. But I want you to start caring for yourself again. And I want you to bond with Arthur. The two of you can go shopping for a cologne scent together. Something that you like but does not remind you of Finland. I think it’ll be good for both of you. No, Arthur, you have no choice in this. Neither do you, Berwald. Now get in the bathroom so I can give you a bath so the two of you can go shopping!” Sweden begrudgingly makes his way into the bathroom, and starts filling up the tub. He listens to the quiet chatter of France and England, unable to quite make anything out but still able to tell they are talking. Judging by the tone of voice, though, it isn’t a lovey conversation.

He tugs his clothes off, then his glasses, and slips into the warm water of the bath, watching it fill, a bit mesmerized. When the door opens, he jumps, sending ripples through the water. “It’s only me, Berwald,” comes Francis’ soft voice. He relaxes a bit, and closes his eyes as he slumps in the water. France runs his fingers through his hair, and dumps a cup of water over it. He massages shampoo into the greasy hair, and grimaces as he watches the colour lighten a bit. “You said it’s been two weeks since you washed your hair? Berwald, you should take better care of yourself. Seriously. Your hair just changed colour, it was so grungy.” He lets out a sigh. “Oh well. You can rest in the bath for as long as you like, once I’m finished here. Then I want you to call me in here and I will dry your hair, brush it, and make sure you brush your teeth as well. I asked Denmark for your deodorant, and I put that with your clothes. Oh yes! I also bought you new clothes. I thought you might need some. I’ve… heard rumors. They mostly tear apart yours, don’t they? You let them do whatever they want to you. Including literally tearing your clothes apart as they undress you.” Silence. Cold, deafening silence. “Oooooookay! I can see this is going nowhere. Anyway, I thought it would be a good idea to get you some new clothes. Even if they don’t tear them, how long has it been since you changed clothing? Those must be filthy.” When he only receives a glare in response, he backs out of the room quietly.  
Maybe an hour later, when all the bubbles are gone, Sweden pushes the stopper out of the tub. He watches the water swirl down the drain, until he is shivering from the lack of warmth from the liquid. He stands, wraps the towel around himself, and towels himself dry. He sighs heavily when he sees his reflection, hair drooping into his eyes. He pulls the new clothes on, and carefully puts the deodorant on. “Francis, I’m d’ne dr’ssing. I l’ft m’ hair w’t so you c’n dry it, s’nce you seem s’ obsess’d w’th th’t. Th’n I s’ppose you c’n br’sh it, as m’ch as I res’nt th’t th’ght.” France barges into the room, a ridiculously large smile gracing his lips. “Sh’t up. I am n’t all’wing th’s because you w’nt it. I j’st d’n’t feel l’ke f’ght’ng you ov'r it.”

“Good enough for me! That means that you are warming up to me. Which also means you are warming up to my thoughts on love. Non, do not deny it, I know the truth now! Of course it will take at least double the time it has already, but one day I will get you to love again! That day just may be much later than I originally intended. Like… A year to two years later.”

“I w’ll n’ver l’ve again, Fr’ncis. You sh’ld st’p try’ng b’fore you l’t y’rself g’t y’r h’pes up.”

“Too late! My hopes are up up up! I will see to it that you are in a happy, healthy relationship within two years from today! What’s the date again?” Sweden considers telling him it is a century or two into the future, but decides to tell the true date, as much of a mistake as he thinks that is. “Merci, chérie. I will make a note for myself when you go out with Angleterre. Oui, you two are still going out. Take him out for a Fika, will you? He has been a bit stressed lately. Fika is about taking time to relax, oui? I’ve tried my best to help him, but I don’t think I can do very much. He needs to get his mind off of things. Both of you do. I think it could be good for you two to bond while taking some time to relax.” Sweden doesn’t argue. He can’t even remember the last time he partook in a Fika himself. Before his heart was shattered, it was a double daily occurrence. It will be nice to have another. Perhaps some small sense of normalcy will return to him.

“Berwald, I have a serious question for you.” France starts drying his hair ever so gently. Sweden grunts to let him know he is listening. “Why are you so opposed to love now? As far as I’m aware, you have only lost one person. Even humans can’t keep one person for their entire lives. What makes you think we can, when we live so much longer?”

“You s’d a q’stion, n’t two. I w’ll only answ’r one. I n’ver th’ght we c’ld keep one p’rson. I’m n’t th’t h’peful. Wh’t you are failing t’ consider is m’ past. S’me of it b’fore the c’rrent you ex’sted, Fr’ncis. I am pr’vate f’r a reason.” The expression on his face is enough to make Sweden feel guilty. He closes his eyes tightly, and quietly continues. “We each h’ve our Joan, Fr’ncis. S’me of th’se stories h’rt m’re th’n others.” He lets out a sigh. Might as well answer the first question as well, now that he’s opening up. “B’t Tino w’sn’t m’ first n’tion l’ve. I pr’fer n’t to t’lk about th’t. L’ving s’meone h’s only ev’r h’rt. ‘M done op’ning up t’ h’ve m’ barely-h’led heart r’pped out ag’n.” His eyes snap open, and he catches France’s gaze with his own. “N’w dr’p it.”

“O-oui, of course.” France shakes a bit under the scary intensity of Sweden’s gaze. He’s never seen him so serious about anything before, and he’s always serious. His head swirls with everything that’s just been said though. Through inference, Sweden’s Joan was before France existed. Perhaps the Kingdom of France or West Francia era? That is a very long time, but losing someone you love never gets easier. And ‘some of those stories hurt more than others’? Then it was either forbidden or… unrequited love. His stomach flips regretfully with the realization. He switches the towel for a brush, and gets to work on the knots in Sweden’s hair. Unrequited love towards a human he had to watch grow old and die. Or maybe just die, it was likely Viking years after all. Things suddenly click in his mind, and his mouth has said the words before he can stop himself. “Eric the Victorious.”

“I t’ld you to dr’p it.” The sudden stiffness of Sweden’s body and sharp tone of voice is more than enough to confirm it.

“My deepest apologies. I didn’t mean to say it out loud. I was merely trying to put things together in my head.” He goes over what he can remember about the king. Potentially three wives, maybe four, depending on if the two Polish women were the same person or not. Either way, a Polish princess married him and gave him his son. No wonder Sweden scowled when he mentioned Poland as a possible crush. One, maybe two of his women, took potentially his first love. And out of the three somewhat confirmed ones—Viking history is very hard to follow—one of Denmark’s men wound up married to two after she was married to Eric the Victorious. Or it was just two women, one Polish that gave him a child, and the next Swedish that stayed faithful instead of going to the Danish king at the time. Still, that would explain some of the malice to Denmark, though nowhere near all of it. He gives Sweden a sad, pitting look. Watching his love marry and have a child must have stung. At least France had gotten to spend some time loving Joan openly.

“St’p th’nking ab’t it.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I know you are private, but you have opened up to me. I am incredibly grateful for that. I promise I will not pry into who your first nation love was until you are ready to tell me, if ever. Just know that you can trust me and I will tell no one.”

“N’t ev’n Engl’nd?” He snaps venomously. France flinches back, a look of concern flitting across his face. What caused such a violent outburst?

“Of course not! What made you think that?” Sweden attempts to shrug him off, but France grips his shoulders tightly. “Berwald. You can’t just run from your emotions. Why do you hate him? Tell me the truth. And I’ll know if you’re lying. I can read your eyes now. Don’t test me.” The larger man’s frame slumps softly. France carefully releases him, and goes back to brushing his hair once he’s sure he isn’t going to attempt to run again.

“You two are t’g’th’r ag’n,” he says simply. France frowns deeply.

“Truthfully, we’re not. I will admit, I would like us to be, but things are… We’re only in that awkward talking stage right now. I think we both want to try again, but we’re scared. We don’t want things to end poorly again.” He furrows his brows. “That’s not a good example for you. That’s showing it’s okay to be afraid of the pain. It’s not. Arthur! Come here! Please!” Sweden doesn’t know if he’s grateful or annoyed France ignored the implications of his being upset they’re together. Mostly grateful, he supposes. No questions as to why he feels the way he does, because of the ‘bad example’ France has been setting. England pops his head into the room, eyes filled with concern.

“What? What happened? Are you alright? Did something happen? You’re not hurt, are you?” He shoots Sweden a glare, but it’s short-lived. Berwald looks away from him quickly, his stomach knotting up. He misses being oblivious to others’ fear of him. Things were better when he didn’t know why he was being avoided. Tino telling him that had been one of the worst parts of the breakup. The pain fills his chest sickeningly, and he squeezes his eyes shut tightly so he won’t cry. The moment France releases him, he’s going to find at least five people to have sex with, human or nation.

“Non, nothing like that. If anything, I’m hurting him, trying to get all these knots out. I thought… I thought that maybe our situation isn’t the best example for him. I’m trying to show him love isn’t painful, and even if it is, it’s worth it, and here we are avoiding getting back together because of the fear of pain. I’m putting a stop to that right now. Will you be my lover, Arthur?” There’s heavy silence for a moment.

“Yes, of course,” is spoken softly, followed by a quiet, joy-filled laugh. “And here I thought I was going to have to be the one to ask you to get back together.”

“You were going to ask me that?” France’s voice is full of happiness; it jabs at the pit in Sweden’s stomach.

“Of course I was. I love you very much, Francis.” Sweden pushes past him, and heads straight for the door out of the house.

“Berwald! Wait!” France hurries after him, but he’s already gone. “Mon Dieu! I thought that would be good for him! He saw that we are no longer afraid of the pain! That should have been encouraging.” England wraps his arm around his waist and pulls him close, kissing his cheek.

“It was encouraging, my dear. I promise. To me, he looked like he was hurting. Do you think it’s possible he’s not quite ready to see a happy couple? He and Finland were together for an incredibly long time, after all. He’s probably forgotten what it feels like to be single. And the pain of the breakup could cause him to think irrationally.”

“Oui, he does indeed think irrationally. From what I’ve noticed, every time he starts to think about Finland, he runs off to sleep around. Now that you say he looked like he was hurting, though, it puts some things into perspective for me. Every time he feels pain, he searches for someone to have sex with to get rid of it. The more pain he feels, the more people he finds to… use him, as you said in the past. He’s depressed, Arthur. I didn’t think that was possible for nations.” He furrows his brows in confusion, then shakes his head. “Not the point. Instead of inflicting physical pain on himself, he’s having others do it to him. It’s to make himself feel better. It’s to make himself…” He trails off.

“Feel loved,” England finishes quietly. “That makes more sense than I would like it to. I know he’s your client? Responsibility? Whatever you’re doing to help him. But he’s here every week. Of course I’m going to start caring about his progress. Or lack thereof, apparently.”

“I’m approaching it wrong.” England blinks in confusion at him. “I’m trying to get him to love again. I shouldn’t be. I told him I wanted us to meet daily now. I’ll start a new tactic tomorrow, if he shows up. Instead of focusing on getting him to love, I’ll focus on making him happy. Even if that happiness involves Finland somehow. I’ll deal with it. I’ll learn what happiness he has with memories tied to Finland, and what happiness he has that isn’t tied to him. I’ll slowly remove the activities tied to Finland, until he’s happy doing things without even thinking of him. Then I’ll point out how much he’s improved. Depending on how he reacts to that, I’ll decide from there if I try to get him to love again, or if I focus on something else.”

“I believe that is a wonderful plan. Perhaps I could suggest something?”

“Of course, amour.”

“It might be wise to start interpreting some of his old daily activities into this. Fika, for one. Twice a day, at ten o’clock and fifteen o’clock. Don't look at me like that, Denmark can’t keep his mouth shut. He also said Sweden likes to either knit or crochet before bed. Which depends on what sort of day he had. A more nervous day warrants knitting, since he will be jittery to get those nerves out. A more relaxing day calls for crochet, something that he can do as a background to watching television or playing a game. Though I’m not sure family games are a good idea for a long time between them. But we could always try playing with him. He also said something about reminding him every two hours or so that Denmark is better than him? That might anger him more than improve his attitude.” France nods slowly.

“It might. But it also might be the thing that makes him return to normal. We will try the other things, and if he still doesn’t seem to improve, we can have Denmark come to help. Only as a last resort though! I don’t want him regressing in progress. But the other things are a good idea. I’m glad you pay attention to Denmark’s constant ranting.” England smirks at him. It sends a shudder up his spine.” However… The planning for this can wait. I think we have much more important matters to attend to tonight.”

“Indeed we do~” England coos, before kissing his lover soundly on the lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE AMOUNT OF RESEARCH THAT I DID ON ERIC THE VICTORIOUS’S WIVES IS RIDICULOUS AH. And nothing is truly coherent!!! It’s like, “You have a Swedish-named woman that might be one of the two Polish princesses talked about, and those two Polish princesses also might be the same person, so technically it’s he had two, three, or four wives, no one really knows!”


	3. Chapter 3

Sweden wakes up in yet another unfamiliar bed. He’s used to this by now, but this bed is colder than usual. He curls in on himself, and jumps slightly when strong arms wrap around him. “Shh. You need to rest. I’ll make us some breakfast.” The person shifts, and leaves the bed. Sweden realizes his entire body hurts, from his muscles to his organs. Even his veins seem to hurt. He closes his eyes and sighs. Russia was rather rough on him the night before. But it was a good rough, the type that easily distracts from the mental pain. But the physical pain has left him unable to move too much. Russia returns, holding a tray full of food. There’s a large plate full of boiled eggs, toast with cheese, and what Russia calls butterbrots. There’s two large bowls as well; one filled with kasha, and the other filled with tvorog, according to the Russian. He smiles innocently at Sweden as he lays the tray on the blanket next to him. “Coffee, tea, or juice?”

“C’ffee, please,” he mumbles out.

“Da! Ladno!” He turns and leaves the room once again. Sweden slowly sits up, flinching a bit as he does so, and picks out one of the odd sandwiches to eat. Russia made enough food for half a dozen people. He bites into the bread and smiles a bit at the taste of the sweet ham, closing his eyes to better savor the food. Butterbrots have his approval. Simple, yet tasty. A perfect breakfast food. They remind him a bit of one of his own breakfast foods, smörgås. Though his have more items on them. He eats one of the eggs as well, and is inspecting the kasha when Russia returns. “I brought bowls for the kasha and tvorog. Here’s your coffee.” He hands Sweden a mug, which he takes gratefully. He sips on it, and looks up at Russia in surprise.

“You kn’w m’ pr’ffered w’y of dr’nking it.”

“Da! Of course I do! I am very observant in world meetings.” Sweden bows his head shyly, blushing a bit.

“Tack. It’s w’nd’rful.” He drinks more of the coffee, watching as Russia smiles brightly at him, his eyes closed.

“You’re very welcome! I’m glad you enjoy it.” He turns his attention back to the bowls, and puts kasha in them. He plops a spoon into them both and hands one to Sweden, while keeping the other for himself. He sips at something, probably coffee, his eyes closed in thought. “Why did you come to me? I’m sure you’ve likely heard the rumors of me wanting your land.” Sweden lets out a soft, long sigh.

“I w’nted t’ h’rt. You m’y be g’ntle and c’ring s’met’mes, b’t you d’n’t h’ld b’ck in b’d. M’ veins h’rt. Th’t’s ex’ctly wh’t I w’nted. F’cusing on the phys’cal pain is m’ch m’re bear’ble th’n f’cusing on the m’ntal pain.” Russia nods slowly.

“I see. So you weren’t scared I would force you to become one with me? In more than the way we did, of course.”

“Nej.” He shakes his head quickly. He grimaces at the shot of pain in his head. Russia reaches out and runs a hand through his hair. “‘M f’ne. Th’s is wh’t I w’nted.” He pushes the hand away gently. “Tr’th be t’ld, if you d’d w’nd up t’king m’ land, I w’ldn’t h’ve c’red. At least I w’ld st’p existing th’n. You c’n’t feel pain if you d’n’t exist.” A sad smile spreads across the Russian’s face. He knows that feeling all too well.

“Ah. It is unfortunate you have had to experience that level of pain as well. But I do understand where you are coming from. Thankfully, I had help with it. I don’t feel as… Useless and hopeless anymore. Someone showed me it’s possible to be loved, no matter how broken you are. I hope you can find that before someone truly does claim your land. It would be a shame to see such a strong, persistent country fall because of silly heartbreak.” He takes a moment to eat some of the food, then looks back at Sweden. “Feel free to stay here for as long as you wish. I did a number on you last night, I wouldn’t be surprised if you can’t walk for at least a week. You might not want to move too much for a day or two as well. I will gladly take care of you until then.”

“Tack,” he mumbles, feeling shy. He hadn’t realized Russia was this kind. Everyone has him wrong. But then again, everyone has both of them wrong. It’s the life of being one of the more intimidating-looking countries, unfortunately. “Th’s means a l’t to me. You are the f’rst t’ truly sh’w underst’nding. I w’ll h’ld th’t dear f’r as l’ng as I c’n rem’mber it.”

“Spasibo, Berwald. Can I call you that?”

“J-Ja.” He blushes a bit, smiling happily. “C’n I c’ll you Iv’n?”

“Da! Of course!” He smiles sweetly, and Sweden blushes harder. He stuffs another butterbrot into his mouth quickly. Russia laughs quietly at him. “Someone is a bit shy, da? It is rather cute.” He reaches out and lifts his chin with a finger. “Perhaps, if things were different, I could teach you that love isn’t painful, as you so desperately wish to see.” He brushes his lips against Sweden’s, then pulls away completely. His touch leaves behind a throbbing warmth much longer than it should. “I am thankful my love allowed me a night with you. He thought it was only right. You looked so desperate. I have allowed him a night with you as well, if he so wishes to take it. If you approach him, of course. I have an idea that you might.”

“I h’ve t’ adm’t, I pr’bably w’ll.” He looks away quickly, and stuffs some kasha into his mouth. Apparently he’s good at stuffing his face when he’s feeling awkward. He’s not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. He feels eyes on him, and he glances up at Russia.

“You seem awfully hungry. When’s the last time you ate a real meal?” His voice is full of concern, and Sweden has to remind himself he’s not speaking to Denmark, who is usually the one concerned about him. His cheeks flush as he thinks about the answer to that question. The last meal he remembers is the breakfast France made for him, and that was pretty light.

“M’ybe s’ven m’nths ago?” He tries to feign uncertainty, but Russia’s expression states he knows it’s the truth. He drops his head and continues eating the food laid out before him. “Tack f’r t’king c’re of me.”

“It’s the least I can do. You let me be as rough as I wanted with you last night. I don’t often get to do that. It feels nice to have gotten the urge out. Not many of us can take that much. You’re still strong and resilient, no matter how much your heart aches. Remember that. You’re one of very few I feel safe allowing my wild side in bed come out around. I know you can handle it. You’re as strong as ever, physically. I believe you can get your mentality back to what it used to be. It will just take time and patience. I heard France is trying to help you?” Sweden’s body tenses. “Nyet, don’t react like that! He may not be the best at approaching things properly, but he is persistent. He’ll eventually see what he’s trying to do isn’t working, and try a new tactic. I know he can be difficult, but he’s the only one trying to help, isn’t he? I would, but we’re too far away from each other. That wouldn’t be a problem if I didn’t have someone I love very much though. I would like to see him as well, but, ah, I usually go over there. It would be rude to leave you here alone. But do know I would help if I could.”

“Ja. Tack. Th’t means a l’t t’ me. And… Tack. I feel b’tter ab’t m’self n’w. M’ c’nfid’nce w’s pr’tty l’w. You s’ying th’t, ab’t m’ str’ngth… It h’lped.” He blushes more, and shoves yet another butterbrot into his mouth. Russia giggles quietly.

“You are rather cute when you blush. Again, if things were different, I might just have to have you.” Sweden nearly chokes on his food, his face crimson through his ears and down his neck. “You are very entertaining! And very easy to fluster. How many have seen this side of you? I’m sure not enough. You should open up more. It’s cute. And I’m sure it will catch someone’s eye, when you’re ready. If you’re ever ready. Am I right to assume France has been trying to push moving on onto you?” Sweden nods, swallowing down his food.

“Ja. He m’ns w’ll, but…”

“He’s not thinking about how you might feel, only him. He does that sometimes. It’s not a bad thing. He thinks differently than us. Sometimes he forgets not everyone wants what he wants. It might be good to remind him of that.”

“If Engl’nd h’sn’t alr’dy,” he grumbles spitefully. Russia’s eyes widen slightly.

“England? Are they back together? I can’t say I’m surprised it happened, but I am surprised it was so soon. They ended rather—what is it?” Sweden jerks his head away, hiding his face. Russia grabs his chin gently, and forces him to look at him. “You’ve got tears in your eyes.” Sweden yanks away from him, and wipes at the tears.

“Nej! I do n’t!” Russia’s face softens.

“You fell for France, didn’t you?” Sweden scoffs.

“Th’t br’t? N’ver! I only c’re ab’t F’nland!”

“You’re getting defensive. Berwald, it’s okay to admit you’ve moved on. Seven months is a long time. Well, to humans, anyway. It can be an eternity when it comes to love. Or it can be the blink of an eye. Either way, don’t deny your feelings. Love does not cause pain. Secluding yourself does. At least promise me you will try to stop secluding yourself? Don’t separate yourself from your emotions. If you need to continue to sleep around that’s fine, but don’t ignore what you want.” Sweden stares at him for a long moment. Then, he nods. “Good. Spasibo. Now! Let’s enjoy this breakfast without such a heavy topic distracting us.”

~

Sweden lifts his arm, and watches himself knock on France’s door. He flinches back as it opens, expecting an assault of words and maybe yelling. He has been gone for a week, after all. Instead, he’s pulled into a tight hug. “Berwald! You’re here! You’re alive! Do you know how scared I was!? No one has seen you for a week! A **week**! I thought you were dead! I thought someone had taken your land in your weakened state!” He lets himself hug Francis back, but he’s very conscious of where he puts his hands. England appears behind him, and Sweden jerks away from him like he’s been burned. England frowns at his reaction, brows furrowing just a bit. “Berwald?” Sweden stares at England. France follows his gaze, a bit confused. “Oh yes! Arthur is here. Why are you staring at him?” Sweden takes a deep, but soft, breath.

“We c’n try th’t d’y ag’n.” France’s eyes light up.

“Oh yay! Go take that bath! We’ll start over from the beginning. You’ve been gone for a week, and I’m sure you didn’t take proper care of yourself.” Sweden nods slowly. He can’t argue the truth. But it wasn’t because he didn’t want to be hygienic this time. It was because he couldn’t really move until that day. He waits for France and England to step out of the doorway, and quietly makes his way to the bathroom. Francis turns to Arthur the moment the door is closed. “Where do you think he’s been?”

“I’m not sure. He was wearing a scarf around his neck though.”

“He’s been with someone.”

“That’s my guess.”

“But for a week?”

“Perhaps a rough night? He was awfully upset when he left.”

“He would have searched out someone who could inflict a lot of pain.” France’s eyes widen at his words.

“Russia.” England grimaces.

“You might be right. But obviously he didn’t take his land. He’s here right now.”

“Oui. But he’s acting differently. Do you think it’s possible… Russia talked some sense into him?” England hums in thought.

“I don’t see why not. He was there for a week, after all. Since he’s in one piece, they obviously weren’t at each other’s throats. He also seems to be in a decent mood. Something obviously happened. He’s willing to go out with me today. He seemed very against it a week ago.”

“He was very against it a week ago. I do think something changed. But it’s best not to question it, least he revert back. I would hate to ruin something good. It’s the first truly good thing I’ve seen from him since Finland got with someone else. Hopefully there will be more improvement with our new ideas, but for now I say we don’t poke the bear.”

“Agreed. But what should I do on our outing? I don’t want to say or do anything that might reverse this progress. There’s been so little of it. I have to admit, it’s refreshing to see him be anything besides broody. I know you’re probably more excited by it than I am since you’ve been working directly with him, but being here practically every time he comes for help has me invested as well.”

“I know, Angleterre. I would suggest keeping the conversation light. Perhaps speak about something you both enjoy, or you could both benefit from talking about. Though he is rather mysterious, I am not quite sure what you both may have in common. I do hope it won’t be too awkward for you, mon amour.” He pulls Arthur close, and pecks his lips. “I am very grateful you are willing to try. Merci.”

“You are very welcome, love. I wish to help as well. It is strange seeing him act so differently from the way he used to. It is rather unnerving. However, I had nearly forgotten he has emotions as well. It is a good reminder. With countries like him, it can sometimes be hard to remember they are like us. They hide so much.”

“Oui. Which is another reason I think the two of you getting to know each other better is a good idea. It could set an example for the others. The more stoic of us sometimes get treated poorly because they are unable to express themselves the way most of us do. Germany, Norway, Russia, Sweden, Switzerland. There are others, of course, but those are the most misunderstood of them. Everyone deserves love, even someone that is a bit scarier than what is considered normal.”

“Yes. I am glad you believe everyone deserves love. You have taught me so many things.”

“And you me.” France smiles at him, and kisses him again. They break apart when Sweden calls from the bathroom. “Duty calls. This time, I will make sure he doesn’t run out.”

~

Sweden stares at his reflection, feeling like something is missing. He watches Francis’ hand tug a brush through his hair, and it comes to him. “C’n you p’t a br’d in m’ hair? L’ke in m’ Vik’ng d’ys?” He flushes a bit. “Only if it’s n’t an is-”

“Of course it’s no issue, Berwald. I would be happy to.” He smiles sweetly at him, and Sweden forces himself to keep a straight face, despite his stomach knotting up. France hums as he braids, focusing on the hair. Sweden takes the opportunity to stare at him in the mirror while he’s distracted. He truly is beautiful. Inside and out. Maybe that’s why his stupid heart decided to fall for him. He forces himself to close his eyes and clear his head. He doesn’t want to think about that right now. Francis is taken. By England. Someone he’s supposed to be going out with in a matter of minutes. He stops himself from grimacing at the thought, but just barely. It won’t hurt him to get to know England better. Francis wants him to, and he would do anything for someone he loves, including Denmark. His eyes snap open and he watches the fingers in his hair. “You look sad,” France comments quietly. “I hope I did nothing wrong.”

“Nej.” He shakes his head quickly. “It is n’thing. J’st th’nking.”

“I can see that.” He pauses for a second, looking unsure. “What happened while you were gone? Only if you want to talk about it, of course.” Sweden furrows his brows ever so slightly. He doesn’t want to tell Francis what happened. He can’t tell him Russia figured out about his feelings. The feelings he is squashing down at this very moment, as France’s fingers brush against his ear.

“Iv’n is the f’rst t’ und’rstand. He also… c’red f’r me. It w’s m’re th’n I d’srved, b’t it h’lped a l’t.” Francis runs a hand through his hair, and starts on another braid.

“Everyone deserves to be taken care of sometimes. I’m doing it right now. Probably not as much as Russia did, but I hope it still feels nice. Being taken care of is very important when you feel like you can’t do it yourself. Do you at least feel better after your bath?”

“Ja, tack.”

“I wish to see you happy again. If a bath and brushing your hair is enough to get you to stop frowning, I’ll gladly do it.”

“And br’ding it.” France laughs.

“Oui. And braiding it.” He works for a long moment, before saying anymore. “I’m glad to be helping, and you seem to be improving… But are you happy with it? Arthur helped me realize not everyone is going to heal the same way or at the speed I would like them to. It’s amazing to feel wanted, but sometimes you just need to be used. And that’s okay! Each of us deals with pain differently. I suppose what I’m asking is… Are you okay with trying to return to normal, or do you want more time? Arthur came up with a wonderful idea to try and help normalize your days again, but that was a week ago and I’ve been thinking since then. Maybe you’re not ready for a schedule. Maybe you need more time to get rid of the pain. The two of you were together for an awfully long time, after all. And I, the country of love, thought he was your only love.” He laughs a bit. “Shows how much I know about the more private group of us. I will never assume anything that horrible again. Could you ever forgive me? I don’t know everything you’ve gone through to cause you to think love is painful, but I do understand it a bit better now. It comes unexpectedly for you, doesn’t it? And no matter how much you will it away, it sticks. But it almost never turns out good. Unrequited love, being played, relationships that are ultimately hurting you because the love is one sided, being tossed away when you thought you had finally found the one. Anyone would lose hope after all of that. It was selfish of me to shove my ways onto you without asking how you felt first. If I’m going to offer help, I should be willing to offer customized help. I’m so sor-”

“Fr’ncis, you are b’bbling.” He catches his eye in their reflection, and watches his cheeks tint pink. “You d’d’n’t know. Th’t w’s wh’t I w’nted. Th’re is nej need t’ ap’logize so m’ch. You h’ve d’ne m’re th’n enough t’ help me. Tack. Fr’m the b’ttom of m’ heart.” He gives him a small, shy smile. “You h’ve h’lped m’re th’n you w’ll ever kn’w.” He closes his eyes again, expression falling into a neutral state. “B’t I need m’re t’me t’ roam. Tack f’r ask’ng me. I’m th’nking I m’ght be ready t’ try a daily sch’dule at a year.” France nods once, just as he opens his eyes.

“That is understandable. As much as I want to try helping you get into that daily schedule now, I will not attempt it. I will prepare things until then. Thank you for being honest with me.” He pulls his hands away, and smiles brightly. “There! All done. Now to brush your teeth.” Sweden stares at his reflection for a long moment. There’s a braid running from his temple back on each side of his head, slanted slightly down, meeting at the nape of his neck.

“They’re beautiful…” He brushes his fingers against one, and his eyes fill with delight. “Tack.” Francis just smiles at him, and hands him a new toothbrush, still packaged. He opens it and brushes his teeth without complaint, making sure to get every tooth at least three times. Once he’s finished, he mumbles out a, “I feel m’ch b’tter,” and flushes.

“Good! You look like you feel better. I’m glad to see it. Now let’s go! You and Arthur have some shopping and bonding to do!” He practically skips out of the room, Berwald following suit. The moment England’s eyes fall on him, his lips part slightly, and words are tumbling out before he can filter them.

“You look lovely, Sweden.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon in this. Basically Denmark is the reason Sweden mumbles. Angst incoming.

Francis shoves both of them out the front door, purposefully ignoring the awkward air between them after the compliment. “Have fun you two! And don’t forget; cologne and Fika! Those are your only two goals, do not finish the day without achieving them!” He closes the door quickly. Sweden turns on his heel and starts walking.

“Where do you think you’re going? We have to do the things Francis says!” England rushes after him, an infuriating pout on his lips. Sweden ignores his urge to snap at England, and continues walking without a word. He refuses to blame him for making things more difficult by being with France. There’s no way any of them could have known he would fall for the man. But that doesn’t mean his urge to be snarky toward him doesn’t exist. It very much does, and he finds himself biting his tongue so he doesn’t say something stupid and revealing. “Well?” His voice is impatient. Sweden takes a deep, steady breath.

“To a cafe ar’nd h’re I l’ke. To t’ke you t’ Fika.” He doesn’t react to the flush that suddenly spreads across England’s cheeks, though he does revel in the reaction a bit. He bows his head, and mumbles something. “Hmm? D’dn’t quite c’tch th’t.”

“Thank you.” He lifts his head up and looks him in the eye. “I wasn’t expecting to be first.”

“It’s b’tter we’re b’th as unstr’ssed as we c’n m’nage b’fore...” He shakes his head. England furrows his brows slightly. 

“You’re afraid to pick out a scent, aren’t you?” Sweden turns his head away quickly. “You are.”

“Nej. I’m n’t. It’s j’st…” He sighs heavily. “Alm’st ev’rything rem’nds me of F’nl’nd.” He looks back at England in time to watch his expression fall.

“Well, we’ll just have to find everything that doesn’t remind you of him.” Sweden stares at him, perplexed. “What?”

“Nej, n’thing,” he replies quickly, and increases his pace so he’s a bit ahead. He holds open the door for England, who doesn’t complain for once. He suspects it’s because of the slightly heavy topic, so he decides to change it as they sit. “Fika is us’lly paired w’th a c’ffee, b’t s’me choose tea t’ dr’nk. Order a sweet p’stry as w’ll.” He looks up at the waiter as he approaches, and gives a small smile. “Bonjour Monsieur.”

“Bonjour! What can I get for the two of you today?” He smiles back.

“Earl Grey to drink, please.” England says quietly.

“Un cafe f’r me, please. And,” he glances at England, who doesn’t look too sure what he wants pastry wise yet. “Two p’stries of the d’y.” He pauses to think for a moment. “Two w’ne b’ the gl’ss as well. Merci. Any pr’ference of w’ne, Arthur?” He’s not the biggest fan of using his human name without knowing him well, but around humans he has to.

“Ah…” He looks over the list of wine quickly, and picks out what stands out to him and he knows well. “Bordeaux.” The waiter notes their order, smiles, assures them it will be out soon, and disappears. “Why the wine?”

“We w’ld b’th b’nefit fr’m b’ing t’psy on th’s tr’p.”

“I suppose you are right. You a bit more than me.” England bows his head slightly. “Are you okay with this? What Francis wants?”

“Nej. B’t I d’n’t th’nk I’ll ev’r be okej w’th it. It’s b’tter t’ f’rce m’self t’ do it, th’n p’ty m’self. M’ve f’rward, n’t b’ckwards, ja?”

“Well, yes, but if you’re going to be hurting-”

“I w’s w’th h’m f’r hundr’ds of years. I w’ll n’ver st’p h’rting. Th’t doesn’t mean I c’n’t go f’rward. I’ve been in the s’me, b’d sp’t f’r s’ven m’nths. It’s t’me to keep going, ev’n if it’s painf’l. B’t sl’wly. I’m going t’ keep a f’w hab’ts fr’m th’se past s’ven m’nths f’r a bit l’nger. Fr’ncis is r’ght though. I need t’ at least st’p owning th’ngs th’t rem’nd me of Tino. F’nland?” Sweden furrows his brows, confused on what he should call the man now that they’re not on the best of terms.

“Don’t make yourself uncomfortable,” England practically whispers. He finds himself willing down the urge to reach out and grab Sweden’s hand to give it a big, comforting squeeze. He has no idea where the urge came from. Seeing the helpless look on the normally stoic man’s face is enough to make his stomach knot uneasily. “I’m sure calling him Tino still is alright. You’re both nordics, after all. You still call Denmark by his human name, don’t you? Even after the Kalmar Union?” Sweden frowns ever so slightly.

“Ja, of course. B’t th’t is a b’t d’fferent th’n being in l’ve.” Another pained expression crosses his face, this one deeper than anything England has ever seen before, but it’s gone nearly as fast as it appears. He has a feeling it’s not strictly about Finland, but he doesn’t dare pry.

“There’s still love with Denmark, just a different type,” he muses. A dark look clouds the other’s eyes.

“N’t enough t’ f’rgive h’m yet.” The venom in his voice makes England shudder.

“Forgive him for what? Not the Kalmar Union, that much is obvious. You aren’t easily angered, so it must have been something awful.” The rage in Sweden’s face and trembling body tells him he shouldn’t have asked. He stands his ground, wanting to learn more about the mysterious man. “I’m only guessing. But your body language is telling me I must be correct. We don’t-“ The waiter arrives with everything they ordered, forcing him to fall silent.

The moment he is gone, Sweden picks up his wine and drinks half of it. It reminds England of something Denmark said once; Sweden can drink, when he wants to. Maybe times of stress are when he wants to the most. He watches him finish off the wine, then takes a sip of his own. It tastes better than he had been expecting. He takes a bite of his food—a croissant with chocolate chips baked in—as Sweden picks up his coffee. It’s steaming, but he doesn’t show any signs of the heat bothering him as he drinks from it. England scrunches his nose in distaste, realizing he ordered black coffee and didn’t add anything to it. “H’w are th’ngs w’th you?” He grunts out, causing England to do a double take.

“Pardon?” Confusion laces his voice heavily. Sweden sighs.

“Fika is also ab’t s’cializing. I r’fuse t’ do it wr’ng j’st because m’ c’mpany doesn’t sh’re m’ny of m’ interests.” He hates that Francis is one of their shared interests, but he doesn’t say that. That would require admitting he’s moved on at least a bit from Tino. He isn’t ready to move on. And he’s definitely not ready to say he fell for someone already taken. Both of those situations prove Francis right. He’ll never say that though.

“I see. I am doing well. A bit stressed.” A questioning brow is risen at him, and the floodgates open. “Actually, I feel like Francis is the only one that loves me. My brothers don’t like any of my ideas, and often they refuse to include me in things. I’m the black sheep of the family. I love them, but I wish they would try more. I try so often, with no progress, that I feel like giving up on them. Alfred still acts like he hates me. Practically everyone else is passive aggressive toward me, or they ignore me. Francis is the only solid thing in my life.” He lets out a sigh. “Well, no, I suppose that’s not completely true. As strange as it is, seeing you every week is another thing I am sure of. I’ve started caring about your progress. Once, when I asked Francis if he thought you were getting better, he taught me how to read your emotions. Your expression may stay the same, but your eyes give so much away. It is rather interesting, if I am being honest.” He takes a long sip of his wine. “When did everything get so messed up, someone I fought hard with a while ago and a heartbroken Swede became the only things I am certain of anymore?”

“W’ll,” Sweden lets out a faint chuckle. England isn’t even completely sure it’s real, and not a figment of his imagination. But no, there’s a tiny sparkle in his eye, something that only comes with amusement. “I am in a s’m’lar s’tuation, ja? You and Fr’ncis are the ‘nly c’rtain th’ngs in m’ l’fe r’ght n’w.” Sweden lifts his hand, and places it next to his. He runs his thumb over the back of his hand awkwardly, refusing to look at him, cheeks steadily turning crimson. England’s stomach does a small flip, then ties itself up in a knot at the sensation. Well shit, that’s not good. “Everyth’ng w’ll t’rn out okay. You w’ll be f’ne. B’th of us w’ll be f’ne. We j’st h’ve t’ g’t through th’se m’re d’fficult t’mes. Th’ngs w’ll go b’ck t’ n’rmal ev’ntually.” There’s a broken hope in his voice that makes England uneasy.

“I don’t think things will go back to normal. I hope they don’t. I don’t want to lose Francis again. And you shouldn’t want to go back to Finland. That’s going to end in more pain if you do. Maybe we only hope for some things to go back to normal. We both need our families back, for one thing. A set daily schedule could be good. Things need to go back to being predictable. And will you please stop worrying-” he catches himself about to say ‘us’, but changes it at the last moment. “-Francis? He’s worried sick about you! His nervous energy has rubbed off on me, and it’s making things worse for both of us. I understand if you feel like you need to sleep around, but can you at least tell him where you’ll be? Or when you’ll be back? He wouldn’t shut up this past week, and no one knew where you were, and Denmark wouldn’t leave us alone for his worry, and we searched for you so much, and-”

“Arth’r. You are b’bbling. Eat. It’s g’tting c’ld.” He pulls his hand away slowly, and takes a bite of his own chocolate chip croissant. England’s hand aches for the missing warmth, but he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he does as he is told, copying Sweden, who obviously knows proper etiquette. He wonders how often he comes here.

~

“You didn’t have to pay for mine.”

“Ja, I d’d. You w’rrying about me h’lped a l’t. It’s the least I c’n do.” He takes a deep breath, and lets out a long, quiet sigh. “R’ght. Off t’ g’t s’me n’w cologne. S’me th’t doesn’t r’mind me of T’no.” He turns and walks into the nearest store, England following closely behind, staying silent. He sighs again, and starts smelling the colognes one at a time, bracing himself for the pain each time. After awhile, England speaks up.

“We should call each other by our human names,” his voice is quiet, but certain. “It is quite strange using our country names when we are both on familiar terms with Francis.”

“F’ne. Wh’tever.” Sweden grunts out, then goes back to smelling. As an afterthought, he adds, “Arth’r.”

“Thank you. I was feeling rather uneasy about that. I am glad one thing that was causing me stress could be solved. Maybe, by some miracle, another will be.” He laughs bitterly. More like another problem will arise. Why did his stomach knot up like that when Berwald comforted him? It was just a simple touch! Nothing exciting about it at all.

“Arth’r?” Berwald’s voice is soft, apprehensive almost.

“Yes, love?” He tenses at the nickname, and Arthur hurries to correct himself. “Sorry to call you that. It’s a habit. I should have thought before I spoke. My apologies if it brought up any bad memories. I will just shut my mouth now and let you proceed.”

“You h’ve t’ pr’mise n’t t’ tell Fr’ncis th’s. And d’n’t break it, as m’ch as you m’ght w’nt t’ aft’r I t’ll you wh’t th’s is.” Arthur notices he’s mumbling a bit more than usual, which means he’s being shy.

“I promise. If I do wind up telling him, that would be like saying my magical friends don’t exist. I would never do that, so you can consider this safe with me. Whatever this is.” Berwald nods slowly, eyes filled with… sorrow. As much as he shouldn’t be, Arthur is surprised by the emotion. The Swede has been steadfastly ignoring it all day.

“Fr’ncis pr’mised n’t to pry into who m’ f’rst n’tion love w’s. L’tting h’m th’nk th’re w’s j’st one b’fore T’no w’s wr’ng of me. Th’re were two. S’rt of.” He closes his eyes. “Mathias and I h’d s’meth’ng going d’ring the K’lmar Union. It’s the reason I st’yed s’ l’ng. Th’n he…” He brings his hand up to what looks like his temple. He shakes his head quickly, dropping his hand. Arthur makes a note to ask about that later. “We w’re j’st pl’ying around, b’t I f’ll f’r h’m. Th’t ended wh’n T’no and I l’ft. Th’t’s wh’n the two of us g’t t’gether. I und’rstand n’w I d’dn’t go about th’t the b’st way.” He furrows his brows, worry spreading across his features. “Th’t’s why he bl’w up on me,” he whispers, then goes back to the story. “I… s’w an opp’rtunity later t’ t’ke Lukas fr’m Mathias. I l’ved h’m b’fore I l’ved Tino. B’t I st’yed w’th Tino. It w’s obvious,” his voice catches, and Arthur finds himself offering comfort this time, in the form of a hand on his back. “L’kas r’sented me. So I l’cked m’ feelings aw’y. K’pt l’ving Tino. Th’ngs g’t h’rder wh’n th’y g’t t’gether. I h’d feel’ngs f’r b’th of th’m, at one point. It w’s h’rd t’ be h’ppy f’r th’m. B’t I m’naged. Seeing two p’ple you l’ved at one point g’t t’gether… It h’rts, ev’n if you no l’nger h’ve feelings f’r either of th’m.”

“Yes, I can see how that might be difficult. And I see better now why you’re so insistent love is painful. Have you ever been in a relationship that didn’t end poorly?” Berwald shakes his head sadly. “That’s horrible. From what I can tell, you are rather sweet. Anyone would be lucky to be with you. But I’m not going to push that on you, that’s Francis’ job. I don’t want you to hate me, especially after you told me that. Thank you, by the way. But I must ask… Why me?” The silence is deafening. Arthur awkwardly pulls his hand away from the other man, and grabs a bottle of cologne to smell for himself.

“You are w’lcome,” comes the soft reply. Then, “You seem t’ be the only one ar’nd th’t und’rstands m’ c’ping w’ys w’thout question. Ivan does too, b’t I’m n’t around h’m often.”

“And you see me at least every time you get help from Francis.” A nod. “Thank you for trusting me. Again. If I may ask, what did Denmark do to your head?” Berwald visibly flinches at the question. “You don’t have to answer. I apologize for even asking. Forget I ever-”

“He h’t the speech c’nter of m’ brain, as I w’s leaving the K’lmar Union w’th Tino. He’s the reason I t’lk th’s w’y.” Arthur goes pale.

“And you still—how dare—how do you—what the fuck?” Berwald can’t help but notice Arthur’s ‘fuck’ sounds like ‘fook.’ It makes him smile, just the smallest bit. “Let me try again. And you still put up with him? How dare he do that!? How do you not strangle him?”

“Th’t w’s s’ch a l’ng t’me ago. And he’s l’ke f’mily n’w. I h’ve st’rted t’ f’rgive h’m. It’s t’king t’me, of course, b’t I am try’ng.” He frowns suddenly. “Arth’r? You ap’logized m’re th’n you n’rmally do. W’s it b’cause of h’w I react’d? Are you… afraid of me?” It hurts to ask, especially after they bonded so much that day. Confusion clouds his features, then he shakes his head.

“I don’t think I am, no. If you had asked me before our outing I more than likely would have said yes, a bit, but I know better than that now. I may have overreacted because of my previous fear, I will admit that. But it was mostly out of concern. You flinched so hard, I thought I had asked something inappropriate without knowing. You don’t deserve that. You’re a big sweetheart. I wish I could stop anyone else from hurting you.”

“Don’t s’y th’t.”

“Why not? I mean it. You don’t deserve what you’ve been through.”

“None of us do!” Arthur resists the very strong urge to flinch away from Berwald, though just barely. He refuses to be afraid of him after saying he’s not. “None of us d’serve it, Arth’r. All the p’n. All the d’th. All the w’rs. Go sh’w G’rmany your symp’thy if you w’nt to g’ve s’meone it so b’dly. He needs it m’re th’n I do.” He narrows his eyes. “J’st go aw’y. The only reas’n you are h’re is b’cause Fr’ncis w’nts you to be. Go b’ck to h’m. H’ve sex w’th him unt’l morning, f’r all I c’re. I won’t be g’ing b’ck until t’morrow aft’rnoon.”

“You’re wrong.” Arthur’s stomach knots up again. He hates what he’s about to say, but it’s for Berwald’s own good. “I care about your health more than you do. I’m not here because Francis wanted me to come. I could have easily gotten out of it if that were the case. I’m here because I want to help. I’m here because I think your obsession with Finland is unhealthy. He’s moved on, yet you seem to be more in love with him than ever. If you aren’t willing to try and get rid of some things you do or use solely for him, then I’m going back to Francis. And you better not show up tomorrow, because I’m going to tell him you’re a waste of his time.” He turns, and starts walking away. Fingers close lightly around his wrist, and he stops. “What do you want now?” His voice is filled with venom.

“T’ ap’l’g’ze,” he mumbles. “‘M s’rry. Really. Tr’ly. I w’sn’t th’nking straight. I j’st h’te the thought of r’ceiving symp’thy. It m’kes me feel l’ke a ch’rity c’se.” Arthur relaxes his shoulders, and turns to face Berwald slowly, a small smile gracing his lips.

“Okay. Then make me something in return. I hear you like to crochet and knit. I’ll continue to worry about you, and you make me whatever you deem fit for what I’m giving. It won’t be a charity case then. Can that work?” The soft, caring tone of his voice visibly throws the Swede off, but he nods.

“J-ja. Th’t c’n w’rk.” He cracks a tiny smile.

“Alright. Thank you.” He lifts up the bottle of cologne he forgot about in his hand. “Can you find a scent that doesn’t remind you of Finland for me?” Another nod. “Thank you. If you tell me what does remind you of him, if it doesn’t hurt to, I can help you search for one. It will make time pass by faster. Literally and metaphorically. Is that okay with you?” He knows he’s babying him, but he feels awful for the things he said. And he doesn’t seem to mind it, judging by the happy glimmer in his eyes, so it’s not harmful. “Thank you.” His stomach does a small flip when he sees him smile again. Berwald smiling is rare at the best of times. Arthur looks away in embarrassment, covering it up by switching out bottles. He thinks Berwald is adorable. Lovable. Sweet. Misunderstood. He shakes his head hard. No! He can’t be falling for him! For one, he’s still being very cautious of love. For two, Francis. Though Francis has stated he’s not sure how people stay loving one person and only one person before, so maybe he wouldn’t be so opposed to a… what is it called again? Polyamourous relationship, that’s it! Arthur glances at Berwald. The heartbreak is back on his face. He decides then and there to keep it quiet, at least until the Swedish man is ready to try love again. Maybe even then.

“S’fter sc’nts r’mind me of T’no. He l’ked m’re woody sc’nts, l’ke p’ne, f’r me.” Arthur nods, puts the bottle he is holding back, and reaches for one he thinks is somewhere around what they need. He sniffs it, scrunches up his nose in distaste, and puts it back. He tries seven more before coming across one that smells pleasant.

“What about this one?” He holds it out to Berwald, who leans in close to smell it, not bothering to take it.

“Wh’t is it?” His eyes shine with happy curiosity, and Arthur finds himself hoping this is the one he gets.

“Not sure. I can’t read French as well as I would like to yet. But it smells like some weird mix of the ocean and coffee to me.”

“Ja, it sm’lls l’ke th’t t’ me too. I l’ke it.” He nods in approval, as if to punctuate his words.

“It passed one test. What about the other two?”

“Oth’r two?” He looks confused for a moment, then, “Oh!” His cheeks turn pink. “Ja. I act’lly f’rgot T’no ex’sted after sm’lling th’t. It w’s n’ce. The m’st at peace I’ve been f’r a l’ng t’me.”

“Then that’s the one! Francis gave me his card for it so you don’t have to worry about the cost. And he told me to tell you not to protest, this is part of how he’s helping you. Just accept it and move on.” He watches his mouth close begrudgingly. They start walking toward a checkout. “Will you be coming back with me? I know we would both enjoy your company. Maybe we can watch one of those ridiculous silent movies Francis likes so much together.” Berwald’s face practically lights up from the suggestion.

“Ja! I w’ld l’ke th’t.” He smiles his first unfiltered smile of the day, and it’s beautiful.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon that Sweden CANNOT cook included in this.

Francis beams when he opens the door and both Arthur and Berwald are standing there. “I wasn’t expecting both of you to be coming back tonight, but I am pleasantly surprised. Do forgive me, but I will have to make a bit more for dinner. I will get on that right away! You two can sit and-”

“Actually, I need to get one more thing. I won’t be long. Maybe you can teach Berwald something about cooking while I’m gone? From what Denmark tells me, he needs some help.” The Swede flushes crimson, knowing full well he recently nearly burned down his house because he wanted toast. Francis frowns slightly as Arthur turns to leave. He would rather teach him how to cook a bit better. At least his home isn’t in near as much danger then! But he doesn’t have the heart to voice that, and he’s gone before the opportunity arises anyway.

“I w’n’t touch anyth’ng, I pr’mise,” Berwald says, almost defensively. Franics’s expression softens.

“Non, I will teach you how to properly cook. Besides, I need some time with you as well, don’t I? You’ve been with Arthur for the majority of the day. I’m assuming things went well? You’re here right now, after all. I was expecting you to go off and have another sleepover somewhere tonight. I’m glad you didn’t though. It will be fun having you here.”

“Neith’r of you seem t’ m’nd. Why?” Berwald narrows his eyes in suspicion at Francis, who looks taken aback.

“Why would we mind?” Silence, and a guilty expression from the Swede before he looks away. “I see. Non, you are not interrupting any time we have set aside for each other. Arthur normally goes home every night, Berwald. Though I may ask him to stay over tonight. He doesn’t need the stress of his siblings so soon after you helped. May I ask how you did that? And thank you for doing it.” He washes his hands, then gets started on preparing more food. Instead of helping, Berwald answers the question, eyeing his handiwork nervously. That knife is rather sharp, and could easily be tossed by accident.

“We j’st t’lked, m’stly. I th’nk the alc’hol h’lped a b’t. R’lax, it w’s one gl’ss of Bordeaux each. S’mething t’ t’ke the edge off.” Francis shakes his head at the information, but doesn’t say anything. “We w’re vuln’rable w’th each oth’r. B’th of our f’milies seem t’ be s’milar. Wh’t a m’ss. B’t we g’t t’ kn’w each oth’r b’tter. I only c’me b’ck b’cause he ask’d me to. M’ int’nsions w’re t’ f’nd s’meone unt’l he said you b’th would enj’y m’ c’mpany, and said we c’ld m’ybe w’tch s’mething t’gether.” He doesn’t dare mention the silent film jab. It was light hearted anyway, and paired with a smile. Arthur clearly loves them as well, possibly because Francis loves them.

“We can most certainly do that. I’m glad he convinced you to come back. I’ll be sure to thank him later. And I’ll thank you right now for coming back. Merci. It really eases my mind, knowing where you will be tonight. I don’t have to worry about anything bad happening to you.” Berwald looks away, cheeks flushed.

“S’rry. I’ll st’rt t’lling you wh’re I am going at n’ght.”

“Merci. That means a lot to me. Though I may still worry about what might happen, at least I will know where you are for the night. That will have to be enough for me.” He slides the cut vegetables into a pan, and starts frying them with some unmarked liquid. Probably something homemade. “Wash your hands and stir this evenly. I have to add a bit more meat as well. Good thing I was making soup tonight!” He laughs softly, and goes back to the fridge. Berwald hurries to wash his hands and stir. After a minute passes with no incident, his muscles relax a bit. “See? Nothing bad is happening. You just need a helping hand. And someone to watch over you very carefully. Try not to let the darker parts stay in contact with the pan for too long. That colour means they’re starting to burn. Try keeping them towards the sides of the pan, where the liquid is deeper. Oui, like that! You’re a natural.”

Berwald’s heart skips a beat. Francis complimenting him on his cooking, when he thought he was unable to even do such a thing, is both nerve wracking and exhilarating. “Tak.” Something he isn’t good at is getting recognition from his… What is Francis to him? A friend, of course, but also maybe a crush? But that’s such a strong word! And he’s still very much healing from Tino. He shouldn’t be thinking about anyone else. Except Francis always seems to lessen the pain to a bearable amount. Just barely though. And he barely thought about Tino while out with Arthur, once things became less awkward between them. The only time he really focused on him had been while they were choosing scents, and even then Arthur had managed to make all thoughts of the male disappear with the scent he had chosen. That had truly been a miracle. In that moment, it had felt like only the two of them existed. He pushes that thought far, far away, and focuses on where the hell he put the cologne. He glances around the counters, but doesn’t see it. Then he recalls placing it in one of Francis’ big, plush chairs by the front door. At least he knows where it is now.

“Berwald!” His arm is yanked away from the pan, and cold water is being run over his hand before he can process what happened. Francis pulls the vegetables from the flame—since when was the flame that big?—and places the pan on a cooling rack. The flames die when he turns the stovetop off, and he turns to the man at the sink. “Are you alright?” Berwald blinks back at him, confused. Alright? Francis sighs heavily, shaking his head. “This is my fault. I should have warned you the liquid I put in those is very flammable. You must have spilled a bit onto the flames.”

“What in the bloody hell happened in here, and why is there a small cloud of smoke coming toward me!?”

“Arthur!” The Frenchman jumps slightly. “We’re in the kitchen! I promise everything and everyone is still in one piece! Just remind me to never let Berwald cook ever again.” Arthur’s head pops up around the doorframe, a deep frown on his face. The frown turns to shock and concern when he sees Berwald by the sink, cold water still running over his hand. He rushes over, cursing hard enough to make a sailor blush.

“What happened!? Is he okay!?” Francis nods quickly.

“Oui. I don’t think it hurt him too badly. I pulled his hand away as soon as I could. I watched the flame go up, so it couldn’t have been more than three seconds before I put his hand under the water. Though the flames were blue.”

“Aren’t blue flames some of the hottest?”

“Oui. He seems to be in shock more than anything, but I do need to examine the burn so I can know how to properly patch it up.” He looks at the Swede, who is still very dazed and confused. “Berwald?” His voice is soft, like silk. “I need to see your hand. Can you pull it out of the water for me?”

“Ja,” he replies quietly, and does as he is told. He even turns the water off, but his fingers fight him a bit when he bends them. He furrows his brows and looks at his hand. To his surprise, his fingertips up the majority of his fingers are angry red. He flips his hand slowly to look at his palm, and notices the same red on it as well. Both Francis and Arthur sigh in relief.

“Just minor burns.”

“Oui, nothing too terrible. But I am still going to treat them as if they are severe. They will heal faster that way. Can you put the meat and vegetables in for me, Arthur? Don’t let Berwald touch them.” Francis leaves the room briskly. Berwald watches as Arthur washes his hands thoroughly, and does as requested. Then two hands wrap around his injured one tentatively.

“Tell me if this hurts.” He shakes his head. This pulls a small smile from Arthur. “Good. Thank goodness. Hopefully your recovery will be quick and painless.” The concern in his voice and care in his eyes makes Berwald pull away gently. “Did I hurt you? My apologies.”

“Nej.” He looks down at his hand, still processing what happened. “You j’st…” He closes his eyes tightly, and promptly opens them when a familiar, smiling face appears behind his eyelids. “R’m’nd’d me of T’no.” Arthur’s eyes widen.

“I didn’t mean to do that. My deepest apologies. I would never—Berwald?” The Swede stiffens at his name, but shows no other sign he heard Arthur. “I’m sorry I reminded you of him. Please don’t run off. Francis needs to take care of those burns, and we would both be worried about where you are and who you’re sleeping with tonight, and I would never forgive myself for running you off if something serious were to happen, and the food, and-”

“You are b’bbling ag’n.” The Brit falls silent. “Tack.” He looks down at Arthur, and tries to show as much earnesty as he can in his eyes. “You pr’mised me a m’vie. I d’n’t feel the need t’ sleep ar’nd t’night. I m’stly w’nt,” he mumbles the last word, embarrassed by it.

“I didn’t quite catch that, love.”

“I m’stly w’nt,” another mumble, followed by, “L’ke on our f’mily n’ghts.” Arthur shakes his head.

“I’m sorry. I still didn’t get that. Can you speak a bit louder?”

“I w’nt c’ddles, okay?” Arthur can’t help but think how adorable it is that Berwald is afraid to say the word ‘cuddles’.

“I think we can manage to give you some cuddles. We may not be as good at it as your family, but we can try. Isn’t that right, Arthur?” Francis’ voice cuts in. He nods in agreement.

“I do believe you are right, Francis.” Berwald is crimson from the embarrassment.

“Oh! We should just become one big cuddle pile after we eat! I’ll put on a movie and gather us some snacks, and we can all wind up falling asleep like that. You know we will, Arthur, don’t deny it.”

“I was not going to deny it. I was just going to ask if you will put some cooling pads in the freezer just in case any of us wake up with a crook in our neck.”

“Oui, good idea!” He runs off again, leaving the medical supplies behind. Arthur rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling broadly. Berwald notices a bag clutched in his hand.

“Wh’t’s th’t?” He asks quietly. Arthur looks where he’s pointing, and laughs sheepishly.

“That’s what I went out for. I thought maybe you would want to crochet or knit tonight, so I went out and got some yarn and needles and hooks, but it looks like you won’t be able to do much with both hands until you’re completely healed. But here. It’s yours.” He shoves the bag into his uninjured hand, then looks away quickly. Berwald notices the blush creeping up his neck, and smiles.

“Tack. Th’t w’s sweet of you.”

“You won’t think it’s so sweet when you see I got the colours of the Union Jack.” He opens the bag to check, and those are indeed the only colours of the yarn. He chuckles softly.

“Still, tak. It means a l’t t’ me th’t you ev’n thought of th’s.”

“I put in a special order for Union Jack crochet hooks and knitting needles. I will take the ones in there and force you to use the new ones, once they’re in.” Berwald just smiles. He’ll gladly use them.

“Still sweet,” he whispers, before focusing his attention on the medical supplies Francis brought into the room.

“Not sweet at all,” Arthur grumbles, just in time for their host to come back.

“What’s not sweet?”

“Arth’r g’t me y’rn and cr’chet hooks and kn’tting needles. He ev’n p’t in a sp’cial ord’r f’r s’me.”

“A special order of Union Jack flag ones! If you’re going to be making something where I have to watch, I want to at least be able to see my own flag!” Francis smiles at the two of them. He knows Arthur doing any of that is his way of trying to calm things between the two of them.

“At least he will have something to use. That was very kind of you. And, indeed, sweet.”

“Not you too!” Arthur grumbles, making his way back to the sitting room. Francis just laughs.

“It means a lot that he even thought of you. You must have made a lasting impression on him today.” His eyes widen suddenly. “I didn’t even ask what you chose! I’ll have to smell it before we settle down for the movie.” He clicks his tongue. “Well, for now, I’m going to patch that hand up. Hold still.”

~

After they finish eating, Francis practically skips into the sitting room. He plucks the cologne out of the chair and out of the bag it’s in. He waits for Berwald to get close, and sprays it onto him, ignoring the grunt of surprise he raises. He closes his eyes and sniffs, smiling a bit. “It does suit you.” He opens his eyes. “And you like it? WIthout it reminding you of Finland?” A soft, shy nod is his response. “Good! I’m glad. You deserve it.” He smiles sweetly at him.

“Tack.” His cheeks flush pink. “Arth’r found the sc’nt.” Francis raises a brow at his lover.

“Did he now?”

“Don’t act so surprised. Yes, I did. But I’m sure Berwald would have gotten to it eventually. I happened to find it first because it was where I was searching.”

“So you were helping?” It’s Arthur’s turn to blush.

“W-well, it would have taken twice the amount of time it did or more if I hadn’t helped. I just thought we should get home in a timely manner.” Francis gives him a look. “I’m serious! Let’s put something on already.”

“Oh, right! I’ll get some snacks!” He hurries off, back into the kitchen. Arthur rolls his eyes, then looks over at Berwald. His face is red, and he’s looking away from him.

“Sorry for him. He doesn’t always know when to quit. He means well though. I think he’s glad we’re not at each other’s throats after our outing. I have to admit, I was sort of expecting us to be.” He smiles slightly. “Thank you, for opening up to me.” His blush travels to his ears before he replies.

“I w’s exp’cting th’t too,” he whispers. “B’t ‘m gl’d we d’dn’t. It’s n’ce, kn’wing wh’re ‘m going t’ be sleep’ng t’night and who ‘m going t’ w’ke up w’th. And tack f’r op’ning up t’ me as w’ll.” Arthur sighs quietly. He wants to comfort Berwald in some way, maybe by looping his arm around his shoulders or grabbing his hand, but he doesn’t. It’s mostly because he doesn’t want to startle him, but he doesn’t want to push any boundaries either.

“You’re welcome to know that every night. I’m sure Francis won’t mind. I think it would ease his mind, if I’m being honest. But I know you’re still hurting. I am curious though. What are you gaining from sleeping around?” Berwald stiffens, and Arthur rushes to explain himself. “I’m not reprimanding you. I am honestly curious. I would like to know what the appeal is. You don’t have to tell me if you are uncomfortable with it, but it would mean a lot to me if you did tell me.”

“It’s h’rd t’ expl’n.” He sighs heavily. “Nej, th’t’s a lie. I kn’w ex’ctly wh’t the appeal is and why. It’s j’st emb’rrassing t’ adm’t.”

“I’m not here to judge you.” He decides to throw caution to the wind, and places a hand on the small of Berwald’s back. “If anything, I’m here to support you. Francis is too, of course, so if you feel more comfortable telling him than me, that’s fine as w-”

“I do it t’ p’nish m’self,” his voice is soft, so soft Arthur isn’t quite sure he heard properly. “The m’re th’y h’rt me, the l’ss I feel l’ke I need t’ be p’nished. Wh’t I d’d t’ T’no w’s wr’ng. N’ver try’ng f’r Lukas, ev’n though I kn’w he h’d no int’rest in me, w’s wr’ng. N’ver t’lling Mathias wh’t we w’re doing m’nt m’re t’ me th’n it d’d t’ h’m w’s wr’ng. Helvete, w’tching Er’c the V’ctorious m’rry and die w’thout ev’r t’lling h’m h’w I f’lt w’s wr’ng. Though he m’ght h’ve h’d me ex’cuted b’ck th’n. N’t th’t it w’ld h’ve d’ne anyth’ng.” He lets out a broken laugh.

“Berwald, you don’t have to do that to yourself. It’s not your responsibility to-”

“Pl’se, Arth’r. L’t me do wh’t I w’nt. W’thout you c’mplaining.” He shrugs off his hand.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He steps away from him. “You can do whatever you want. I’m not here to tell you what and what not to do. My apologies.” He sighs, and goes over to the couch and sits on it. Berwald quietly sits next to him, though not near enough to touch him. Francis bounds into the room, holding a bowl to his chest. He sets it on the coffee table with a flourish and a smile.

“Dragibus and fraises tagada, perfect movie snacks! I emptied a bag each into it and shook it around. So it’s a surprise which one we get!” He plops one into his mouth. “Fraises tagada! What do you want to watch? I vote for a silent film first.” He flips through a DVD book, and puts one into the player. He sits on the other side of Arthur, and leans against him. Berwald watches their fingers lace together out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly, he’s never felt more alone. He forces that thought away, and focuses instead on thinking about his family. His family that has no idea where he is. He pulls out his phone quickly and texts Lukas that he’s with Francis and Arthur for the night, and safe. Someone pokes his cheek, and he looks up with a grimace. “Don’t look at me like that. Why are you so grumpy? Do you need cuddles right now?”

“Nej.” He shoves Francis away gently. “‘M j’st t’lling m’ f’mily ‘m s’fe.”

“Okay.” Francis falls silent, and goes back to cuddling with Arthur and holding his hand. Berwald ignores them the best he can and stares at the screen, trying to focus on the film. His phone vibrates, and he reads over the text a few times, trying to distract himself. “Non, the air in here is too awkward for a silent film. What happened between you two while I was getting snacks?”

“N’thing.”

“Nothing my ass. You were getting along so well. I leave you alone for a few minutes, and suddenly you’re not even looking at each other! I care about both of you. I want you to fix this right now. I’ll leave the room if I have to.” When he’s greeted by silence, he sighs. “Out I go,” he mutters as he stands, then goes toward his room.

“I’m sorry I-”

“Nej, Arth’r. Th’s is m’ fault. You h’ve ev’ry r’ght t’ be w’rried ab’t it.”

“I still sho-”

“H’wever,” his interjection makes the other stop talking. “I w’ll c’ntinue to do wh’t I feel l’ke I d’serve. N’w you m’y speak.” Arthur takes a deep breath, then leans heavily against the Swede, who freezes at the contact.

“Francis and I will just have to convince you that you deserve better, then.” He closes his eyes. “You big, dumb, cuddly, self-depriciating teddy bear.” Berwald isn’t sure if it’s a compliment or an insult, but it does make him feel better. “Francis! It’s solved!” He sits back up, opening his eyes again. “That cologne is perfect for you. Now you smell even more like coffee than normal, with undertones of the ocean. It’s pleasant.” Before he can reply, Francis is back in the room.

“Merci. I’m going to put something a bit more light-hearted on.” He starts fiddling with the player. Arthur takes the opportunity to look at the blush on Berwald’s face. He’s so easy to fluster. It’s cute.

“That might be optimal. Thank you.” He smiles at his lover. He’s decided whatever he’s feeling for Berwald warrants a conversation. Perhaps not quite about him, but at least about being with others as well. It is hard to love one person at a time.

“Tack,” Berwald grunts out, ears tinted pink.

“Oh, it’s nothing! I’m just glad you two could make up. It feels better in here now. Less heavy!” He giggles, and flops back onto the couch. He drapes himself over both Arthur and Berwald’s laps, then tugs a blanket over all three of them. “At least lean on him, Arthur. We did promise him cuddles.” He turns his attention to the movie. Something catches in Berwald’s throat when Arthur lays his head on his shoulder. More than likely shock, but at least the contact feels nice. Soon enough, he drifts off like that; Francis in both of their laps, Arthur’s head on his shoulder, and his head on top of Arthur’s once he’s completely asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur is the first to open his eyes in the morning. He glances down at Francis, and furrows his brows when he sees that he is hogging the blanket. Why is he so warm, then? He turns his head to look at Berwald, but winds up with his nose pressed into his throat. He jerks his head back, ignoring his slightly faster heart rate. He pulls his legs out from under Francis carefully and tries to stand, but arms tighten their grip around his torso. He laughs softly. So that’s why he’s not cold. He pries Berwald’s arms from around him carefully, and walks toward the kitchen. He pauses in the doorway of the sitting room, and looks back at Francis and Berwald. The Swede grumbles in his sleep, likely upset his main source of cuddles left. Arthur can’t help but smile. Berwald puts on a much different attitude about cuddling than he actually has. He’s glad the fake one disappears in his sleep. And that he wasn’t crushed by the larger man. He brings his hand up to his hair and smooths it down the best he can before continuing on his path.

~

Francis is the second to wake up. He wipes the sleep from his eyes as he sits up. He yawns, and pulls the blanket tighter around himself. He rubs at his eyes again, then slowly stands. He catches sight of Berwald’s glasses on the coffee table, and smiles at the memory of how they got there. He was the first asleep, unsurprisingly, and Arthur managed to tug his glasses off and give them to Francis, asking if he would put them somewhere they won’t break. He looks at the Swede, and decides to drape the blanket over him. He smiles as he whispers, “Stay warm, big guy,” then shuffles away, off to the wonderful smell coming from the kitchen.

“Good morning, Francis!” Arthur greets cheerfully the moment he steps into the room.

“How did you know it was me?” He questions, trudging over to the fridge for some orange juice.

“I doubt Berwald will be awake for at least another thirty minutes, if not more. He barely reacted to me pulling out of his death grip when I woke up. He must be in a deep sleep.”

“We should let him rest for as long as he needs.”

“Yes.” He twirls, and pecks Francis on the lips.

“You’re in a good mood.” He muses, smiling brightly because of the kiss.

“Mm. Maybe just a bit. I woke up before either of you, so I get to make breakfast.”

“And I’m in here before you have the opportunity to burn it, so maybe I can keep that from happening.” Arthur rolls his eyes, and goes back to the stove.

“At least I’m not the worst cook you’ve ever seen.” Francis laughs.

“Absolutely not! There are plenty of others that are worse than you. Berwald included.”

“I honestly didn’t believe Denmark that he could be that bad. I mean come on, flooding the kitchen pouring milk into macaroni and cheese? How does that even happen? But I think I understand a bit better now.” He shudders.

“Oui. Perhaps we take Denmark’s word more seriously from here on out? At least about Berwald’s tendencies. I don’t want another incident like last night. I was so worried about him.”

“I agree.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Denmark can be trusted about some things. Not everything is a story to get attention. I’m going to listen to what he has to say more now. We might have him all wrong.”

“Oui, we might. But that is a thought for another day.” 

“You’re right.” They fall silent for a long moment. “Actually, Francis? Can we talk about something?”

“Of course, mon amour. What is it?” He steps closer, and wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist from behind. He places his chin on his shoulder and lets out a soft sigh. “We should do this more often.” Arthur nods his agreement, throat dry and heart beating fast. He focuses as much attention as he can on cooking, and he feels Francis watching his hands.

“I love this position. It’s wonderful. Keep that in mind when you hear what I have to say.” He is squeezed in response. He takes a deep breath. “You once mentioned how awful it seems to have to love one person at a time.” When he doesn’t say anymore, Francis nods.

“Oui, I did.” He kisses Arthur’s cheek. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

“I thought it was a conversation we should have. I love and trust you, and I know you love and trust me. But sometimes someone’s heart is too big to love only a single person in this way.”

“Oui, sometimes.” He hums in thought, then smirks. “Have you grown a heart suddenly and fallen for someone else?” His cheeks tint pink.

“I’m not quite sure. I do love you, very much, of course, and I wouldn’t want that to change.”

“It wouldn’t have to change, cher. Usually the people that love more than one person at a time romantically get to do just that, if their partners are okay with it. It has ruined some relationships, I’m sure, but it will not ruin ours.” He nuzzles him reassuringly. “I do not mind if you pursue this other person. I only have a few requests.”

“Of course, anything for you.”

“We get as close to equal time as you can manage with you. They know before you ask them to be with you. I know who they are and you get my permission before asking them out. I get the same ability, with the same rules. These are standard rules for relationships like this.” Arthur turns his head and gives Francis a solid kiss on the lips.

“I would never dream of not doing a single one of those things. It’s only fair to you. After all, we were together first.” He wiggles out of his grasp, and pulls him in for another kiss.

“Arthur, your food is starting to burn. We can’t make out right now, as much as I want to. You have to finish making breakfast.” He sighs, and begrudgingly turns the flames off. He lays the pans aside, and sets the table in record time. He positions the fried eggs, sausage, and bacon on each plate carefully. He goes back to each one with tomato slices and freshly made bread, courtesy of Francis the day before. He smiles at the somewhat combined English-French breakfast. Francis places jam in the middle of the table. "There. Only the bread will be French today. I'm okay with that, because the man I love made breakfast for us." He plants a light kiss on his nose.

“Indeed I did. And you think it’s edible as well! I did… acceptable.”

“More than acceptable, Arthur. You did wonderfully.” He kisses the top of his head. “There. A reward for doing such a good job. Should we wake Berwald, or let him sleep some more?” Before Arthur can reply, the Swede stumbles into the room. Francis looks up and giggles. "Why aren’t you wearing your glasses? They’re on the coffee table in front of the couch.”

“Oh. Tack.” He spins around, and goes for his glasses. Arthur laughs softly, thinking how charming a confused Berwald is. Francis stares at him for a long moment.

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“The person you aren’t quite sure if you’re starting to love as well.”

“No, of course not, he’s healing.” Despite his words, his cheeks flush crimson. Francis crosses his arms over his chest and gives him a knowing look. “Alright. Don’t stare at me like that. I admit, yesterday when we were being civil to each other, I noticed that maybe I think he’s rather adorable. That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m falling for him, of course, but it might be a possibility in the future. I thought I should have that conversation with you before anything becomes certain to me.”

“Merci for being so upfront about it.” He gives a small, shy smile. “Now that you mention it, I believe my worry might be a bit more than a friendship type of worry. I don’t know when it started, and it’s still small enough I didn’t notice until I started thinking about it. However, it is likely best to keep our emotions from him until he is better. And until we are both more confident in them.” Arthur grins, and pecks his lips.

“You always do know the perfect thing to say.” He wraps his arms around him lovingly. “But we can talk about how cute his actions are sometimes when we’re alone, since we might be feeling the same thing, right?” Francis chuckles.

“Of course, mon amour. I am happy we can share that.” Berwald walks back into the room, and Francis falls silent.

“I found th’m,” he grunts out, tapping the side of the glasses on his face. “Nej th’nks to you. A bl’nd m’n st’mbles into the room, and you two d’cide t’ l’t h’m f’nd h’s gl’sses al’ne.”

“We apologize, Berwald. We got a bit distracted is all. Come, sit! I made breakfast.” He rushes to pull out the three chairs in front of the plates, and sits in the last one. Francis and Berwald fill in the other two quickly.

"Tack f'r the food," the Swede whispers, bowing his head shyly. Arthur bites the inside of his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling. He glances over at Francis, who is smiling.

"I made sure he didn't burn anything, so it should taste better than any other cooking of his that you may have had in the past."

"My food isn't that bad!"

"Mon cher, a starving animal would refuse your scones. If you think that isn't bad, I would hate to see the horror you do consider bad." He gives a fake shudder. Arthur huffs, and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Well it's edible, at least," he grumbles. "And with help, it tastes wonderful! See?" He cuts into his fried egg, and scoops it into his mouth. Francis chuckles at the expression on his face. Berwald looks up at him just long enough to realize he should turn his head away, and does just that. He clears his head of any dirty thoughts before they even come. Arthur appears to be in pure bliss; eyes half lidded, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly, and a slack jaw. To distract himself from the image that may or may not be burned into his memory, he pokes a sausage with his fork and bites into it. It reminds him of Mathias's breakfasts.

His stomach aches suddenly, with the urge to go home. Well, to the shared house. The one that Mathias insists they spend at least a week out of every month in, for family bonding. The one that he and Lukas and sometimes Emil now stay in, hoping both Berwald and Tino will come back for a bonding week. His stomach knots up painfully. He wants to go there, now that he's getting a bit better, but he's terrified he might have to see Tino again. That thought is enough to send him into a silent panic attack. He continues eating his food, in hopes neither Francis nor Arthur will notice. He doesn't need them worrying about him, he can take care of himself. His chest constricts tightly over his heart, and it starts to get difficult to breathe. He doesn't let it show, but his focus is far from the conversation now.

“I’m pleasantly surprised,” Francis muses after taking a bite of each type of food Arthur made. “I knew it would taste good, as you honestly aren’t bad at seasoning things properly, but I had no idea it would be this delightful unburned. Merci for the food,” he tilts his glass of orange juice at Arthur, who is a blushing mess.

“You are very welcome, love. I am delighted that you seem to be enjoying it.” He tilts his head toward Berwald. “I hope you find it pleasant as well?” He pauses for a response. When none comes after a few moments, he glances down at his plate. He’s hardly touched anything. “Is the food not appetizing?” Silence. Arthur furrows his brows in confusion. Sure the Swede prefers to be quiet, but he’s never unresponsive. Especially when asked a question. “Berwald?” He just stares at his empty fork. The lack of response alarms Arthur, and Francis grabs and squeezes his hand reassuringly.

“Do not do anything rash. He may just be in his own head. If you startle him out, and he has a sharp object in his hand, it could end poorly. I know you are worried, but let me handle this. Alright?” The Brit nods begrudgingly, and watches Francis’ hand carefully pry the fork from Berwald’s fingers. He clasps the hand previously holding the item, and calls out softly. “Berwald? Are you feeling unwell? If you are, I have medicine you can take, and then you should go lie down.” The gentle touch of his hand seems to stir Berwald, as he blinks a few times. He stares at the hand holding his, then follows the arm with his eyes slowly. Confusion clouds them, but both Arthur and Francis’ stomachs flip before the emotion exists there. Fear. Pure, raw fear that makes Arthur nauseous and Francis concerned. “Mon Dieu!” The larger man flinches back, removing his hand from Francis’.

The Frenchman takes a deep breath, and lowers his voice. “I did not mean to startle you. S'il vous plaît, let me hold your hand again. Your pulse is going crazy. I need to make sure it is nothing to be concerned about.” Berwald cautiously places his hand back in Francis’, and he places two fingers over his veins. “Merci. Why did you react like that? Loud noises rarely spook you.” Arthur notes that he is avoiding the fear they both saw behind his eyes. “I will not hurt you. Neither will Arthur. You are safe here. You can tell us anything. Or just one of us, if you are more comfortable that way. We just want to help. What caused your panic attack?” Berwald yanks his hand away.

“Th’t ‘s n’ne ‘f y’r b’s’n’ss! ‘M l’v’ng!” He storms out of the room, and slams the front door on his way out. Francis releases a long, drawn out sigh.

“That went worse than it could have.” Arthur wraps his arms around him tightly.

“But it also went better than it could have. You were right to take the fork before trying to speak to him.”

“He didn’t even try to pronounce a single vowel.” His voice is quiet, but Arthur can tell the severity behind it.

“Is that significant?”

“It is. He tries so hard to speak normally. The fact that he wasn’t trying means he’s acting on instinct, and instinct alone. He’s going to do something stupid.”

“We need to tell Denmark and Norway, at least. They can help us look for him.”

“Non. We can tell Norway, but not Denmark. And we are not looking for him.”

“But Francis-”

“Non! No ‘but’s!” He starts shaking. “He’s a strong man. If we go searching for him, and find him, and he’s still only using his instincts…” He turns his head away, but Arthur has already seen the tears threatening to fall. He brushes Francis’ hair aside and kisses the nape of his neck. He wraps his arms around his waist tightly.

“I understand. You want as few people hurt as possible. Hopefully no one gets hurt, of course, but there’s no sense putting in four more than necessary.” He nods, then turns and buries his face in Arthur’s shirt. He rubs his back gently, and whispers a promise that everything will be okay, even though he’s not too confident in that statement. When his sobs have mostly subsided, the Brit runs a hand through his hair. “How about you go put on a movie? You need to relax. I’ll clean up in here, notify Norway, and then I’ll be in there to give you comfort cuddles. Doesn’t that sound nice?” A nod, and Francis stands slowly, then drags his feet all the way to the couch. The moment he is watching whatever movie was in from the night before, Arthur gets to work cleaning up. He peeks at Francis to make sure he’s somewhat okay, before dialing the number for Norway. He’s thankful Denmark gave Francis a list of all their numbers once he started helping. Well, all but Finland.

“Hallo?” Norway’s voice is a little muffled, but not bad enough Arthur can’t hear him.

“Norway! Thank goodness you answered! Berwald had a-”

“England? Is that you?” There’s shuffling, and when he comes back the sound is clearer. “And Berwald? Since when did you start calling him that?” Arthur flushes crimson, but ignores the question.

“Sorry to bother you, but this is important. Berwald had a panic attack and ran off. Francis tried to comfort him after accidentally scaring him, but he ran off. He’s acting on pure instinct right now so he could possibly hurt someone he runs into if they try to help, we’re both concerned that he may hurt someone. Not on purpose, of course, but it would be awful if he were to do anything like that. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing, I don’t think, so he shouldn’t be-”

“England. Just breathe. I’m sure he won’t do anything too awful. I believe he will still act on his morals, even in such a state. Do you know what caused the panic attack?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t think Francis knows either. We were eating breakfast, and he ate a sausage, and then he sort of zoned out. We didn’t know it was a panic attack until he looked at us, but then he got confused instead of scared, so I suppose Francis thought it would be okay to ask him what caused it, but he ran off when he did. I thought he was calm at that point. Honestly I didn’t even know it was a panic attack until Francis said something about it, but by then Berwald was leaving and he didn’t use any vowels, which Francis said meant he was acting on instinct alone, so that’s how I knew that.” He takes a deep breath.

“Are you finished now?”

“I think so.”

“Tusen takk. The first question I should ask is are you and France okay? He didn’t hurt you, did he? Not even by accident?”

“No, he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He’s a big teddy bear. He would never hurt anyone. Not physically, anyway. I don’t think he ever meant to hurt Finland either. From the few seconds he’s spoken of their relationship, it sounds like he didn’t know what he was doing was wrong until he blew up.” He shakes his head. “That’s not what I called about.”

“Ja, I know. So he didn’t hurt either of you? That’s good. But you say he didn’t use any vowels? That’s not so good. Francis was right about him acting on instinct. I hope he’ll be okay. I’m sure he will. But thank you for calling. He might come here. I’ll be on the lookout for him, and I’ll call back if he does come here. I’m also going to message him in an attempt to calm him down.”

“Lukas, who are you talking to?” sounds a voice in the background. Arthur recognizes it as Denmark’s.

“No one, Mathias. Go back to bed, it’s too early for you to be awake. I haven’t even started breakfast yet.”

“You are talking to someone! Who is it? Is it important?”

“England, I have to go deal with him. But I promise to tell you if I get any other information on Berwald. Takk for calling.” The line goes dead, and Arthur quietly hangs up the phone. He’s done all that he can. He drifts to the couch Francis is on, and sits next to him. He pulls a blanket over both of their shoulders, then over their laps, and wraps his arms around his waist, planting his face in the crook of his neck.

“I vote we have a day to ourselves. We need to relax after that. Let’s forget about thinking. Berwald will be fine. Nothing bad will happen to or around him. We don’t need to worry senselessly. We can’t do anything about it, even if he does do something he normally wouldn’t, as unlikely as that is.” Francis sighs, and cuddles into Arthur.

“You’re right, as much as I don’t want to admit it.” They fit perfectly together, like a puzzle.

“Norway said he would message him something to hopefully help calm him down as well. It won’t be too long before we at least hear something about him.” As if on cue, the phone rings. “See? Don’t get up, I’ll get it. You’re stressed and worried enough. Rest.” He gives him a stern look, then hops up begrudgingly. He answers the phone quietly. “Hello?”

“England. He messaged me back. He’s fine, but I have a feeling that panic attack was about Tino. He might disappear for a few days while he deals with the aftermath. He promised to keep in touch with me this time, and I’ll let you know if he stops. Other than that, try your hardest not to be concerned about him. If he goes back there first and he’s greeted with worry, he might have another panic attack. Act like he never left if he comes back. Tell when he does. I need to speak with him about this.”

“Thank you. Really. I’ll relay the information to Francis.”

“Værsågod. Og takk. I think that would be best. I have to go now, before Mathias catches on that something is wrong.” Arthur doesn’t even wait for the line to go dead this time before hanging up. He goes back to Francis for more cuddles.

“He’s okay, but he might be gone for a few days. We can’t fret over him when he comes back though. It may cause the same thing that happened today to happen again, and that would put us in an unwanted loop. Norway said to act as if he never left. I know that’s going to be hard, but it could be a lot worse if he has another panic attack, which is likely if we greet him with worry.” Instead of responding, Francis buries his face in his chest. He brings his hand up to run his fingers through his hair lovingly. “We’re going to be okay. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone catch the Young Frankenstein (musical) reference? I’ll give you a hint: it’s one of the opening lines to “Listen To Your Heart” and it’s toward the end of the chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

Berwald doesn’t go back to Francis’ home when he calms down. He just can’t. It’s too embarrassing. He finds himself knocking on the door to the shared house. To his surprise, Emil is the one that answers. The moment he sees Berwald, he shoves the door aside and hugs him as tight as he can manage. “You big dummy! Where were you!? Mathias and Lukas have been so worried!”

“Are you s’re only th’y w’re w’rried?” He smiles slightly, and wraps his arms around the smaller man, who huffs.

“Of course I’m sure. I wasn’t worried at all! I knew you would come back today.” Berwald chuckles.

“D’d you?”

“Well, maybe not exactly today, but I hoped you would be back this month. No, not hoped! Knew!”

“Is th’t why you are st’ll h’gging me s’ t’ghtly?” Emil suddenly pulls away, though it seems like he doesn’t want to. He slaps Berwald’s chest lightly.

“Where in the hell were you!? It’s been a month and a half! Mathias and Lukas go out looking for you every day! Obviously you’ve been staying with someone, or multiple people, since you’ve been keeping in touch with Lukas. No phone lasts that long without being charged, even being used sparingly.”

“‘M s’rry. I c’n’t t’ll you th’t. B’t I’ve been g’ne f’r a m’nth and a h’lf? Guess I l’st tr’ck of t’me.” Emil sighs, shaking his head.

“Well come in. I’m going to call Mathias and tell him they should come back, since you’re here. I would get anything you need to do done before they come back, if I were you. He’s missed you a lot, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he pulls you into a hug and doesn’t let you go for at least an hour. Maybe more. Probably more. It is Mathias, after all. He might not release you until tomorrow. Good luck.” He turns and walks away. Berwald decides to run himself a nice, hot bath to rest in before he has to face Mathias. The worry wart.

~

“Berwald! Come here! Come cuddle! Let’s have a movie night! I bought _Frozen II_ ! Now we can watch both of them back to back! Isn’t that exciting!?” Mathias is practically vibrating with excitement. He makes grabby hands at Berwald, who sighs. He can’t say no to that. He begrudgingly goes to Mathias, who wraps his arms around him tightly. “Yay! Mange tak, Berry!” He nuzzles his face into his chest, and practically drags him onto the couch. Berwald’s biggest weakness needs to stop being cuteness. Lukas sits next to them, and Emil plops down on his other side. Mathias readjusts himself to face the television, still on the Swede’s lap. He snuggles back into his chest. Berwald winds up with his arms wrapped loosely around him maybe ten minutes into the original _Frozen_. He’s thankful they didn’t make a big deal about where he’s been. They just went straight to family activities. He kisses Mathias’s hair discreetly in a silent thanks.

“Jag älskar dig, Mathias,” he murmurs into his silky mane. He likes when he keeps his hair in its natural state. It’s so soft. He squeezes him lightly, and the Dane nuzzles himself closer. They may hate each other because of the Kalmar Union and the aftermath, but they also love each other more because of it. Mathias comes through when it matters the most. Berwald focuses his attention back on the television. Despite being exhausted, he manages to make it through both _Frozen_ movies and maybe thirty minutes into another movie he can’t focus on before falling asleep.

“Jeg elsker også dig, Berwald,” Mathias mumbles once he’s sure he’s asleep. He doesn’t want him knowing he had heard, but he isn’t going to not say it back. It is rare he receives affection of any sort from Berwald, but it is never unwanted. He sighs in content when he is hugged tightly. Always hesitant to cuddle when awake, but never afraid to when sleeping. It’s a wonderful thing Mathias has definitely taken advantage of way too many times. He turns his head into the crook of the Swede’s neck. “Min søde Bær,” he presses a kiss to the skin there, steadfastly ignoring the hickeys. This is the first step to getting his family back. No matter how small, it’s still a step. Things are finally getting back to normal. He doesn’t care if it takes years from here; there’s been improvement to the situation, and that’s what matters the most.

~

Berwald’s eyes snap open the moment he is conscious. He untangles himself from Mathias, being careful not to wake him. The Dane whines and reaches for him, but an arm blocks him from grabbing him again. “Tack Lukas.” He hurries out of Mathias’s reach.

“We need to talk.” Berwald sighs heavily. It’s best to get this over with sooner rather than later. He leans against the back of the couch. Lukas stares him down intently. “England informs me you had a panic attack before running off.” The Swede’s body stiffens. Arthur shouldn’t have told him! “Berwald. He was worried about you. You were almost aggressive when you left. He sounded on the verge of a panic attack of his own when he called. What brought it on? I only want to help you.”

“Okej.” He bows his head. “I th’ght ab’t here. H’w b’dly I w’nt t’ h’ve an’ther f’mily week. B’t th’n m’ th’ghts t’rned t’ Tino, and h’w an’ther f’mily week w’ld mean h’ving t’ see h’m again. I j’st s’rt of… l’st it.” Lukas frowns lightly.

“I see. Perhaps this will help with that.” He picks up an envelope off the coffee table, and hands it to him. “Don’t open it yet. It’s from Tino. Don’t look at me like that, it’s not anything bad. I haven’t opened it, of course, but he said it was for your eyes first. You can do what you want with it after you’ve read it. I think you should at least give him a chance. It’s been roughly nine months. You’ve both had your time to grieve. It’s time you start to forgive and heal, Berwald. He has.”

“He bl’w up at me! He l’ft me! He h’rt me! He h’d no reas’n t’ grieve! Only I d’d! He imm’diately g’t w’th s’meone else! He-”

“You’re going to wake Mathias and Emil.” Berwald turns and storms out of the house without another word. He stays deep in his thoughts as he walks, not paying any attention to where he’s going. He doesn’t stop until he bumps into something. He snarls at the object, but his anger drains from him when he sees what it is. Why had his subconscious led him here?

He takes a deep breath, and raps his knuckles on the door to Francis’ home. It swings open, and Francis adjusts his polite smile to a serious glare. He gives the angry man a small, awkward wave. “Hej,” he whispers.

“Don’t ‘hej’ me. You’ve been gone for a month and a half. I deserve a better greeting than that. And an explanation.” He places his hands on his hips. “You may start any time.” Berwald’s shoulders slump. Francis closes his eyes and rubs at his temples. “You had us worried sick. I’m just glad you’re okay. Come in. Rest. Explain why you were gone so long when you’re ready. I’ll make us some tea.” He shakes his head slightly. “Goodness. I’m turning into Arthur.” He disappears into the kitchen.

Berwald closes the door behind him quietly as he enters the room. He barely has time to sit before Francis is peeking around the doorframe at him. “S’rry t’ p’p up w’thout w’rning. I j’st h’d t’ leave b’fore M’thias w’ke up.” His cheeks flush in embarrassment. Francis raises a questioning eyebrow, and he knows there’s no getting out of telling him why, judging by his expression. “We h’d a f’mily n’ght l’st n’ght. I w’ke up c’ddling h’m.” He shakes his head slightly. His neck still tingles a bit from the kiss that woke him up for a moment, but he’s not about to tell Francis about it. Mathias is very physical in any sort of affection he gives, romantic attraction or not. Berwald’s want for him is long gone, but he’s still a bit awkward about touching him. It reminds him of when he did have those feelings and they were being intimate.

“Look at that blush.” Francis chuckles. “Someone’s embarrassed. I suppose I don’t blame you though. You are a bit more private than others. I can see how waking up cuddling anyone would be awkward for you.” He’s thankful Berwald was the last one to wake up when they all fell asleep together. He smiles fondly at that memory. Arthur had said he’s very cuddly in his sleep. “I’m sorry I fussed at you a few moments ago. Norway said to act like you never left, but it’s been so long. None of us expected the length. We’ve all been really antsy lately. Did he speak with you about your panic attack?” Berwald scrunches up his nose distastefully.

“Ja. Unf’rtunately.” Francis stares at him, hoping he will elaborate. When it becomes clear that he’s not going to, he sighs.

“Alright. I’ll go get our tea. Arthur is coming over for dinner. You can stay in a room if you aren’t ready to be around others.” He leaves the room once again. Berwald squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can manage. It gives him a headache, but the small amount of pain helps to ground him. He doesn’t want to explain himself twice, and having Francis explain it to Arthur isn’t right. It may have started out as just the two of them, but at some point it became the three of them. He opens his eyes when he hears clanking, and watches Francis pour their tea. “You have plenty of time to make your decision. Arthur won’t be here for another seven or so hours. I will have to start cooking before then, of course, but I will make enough for you regardless if you decide to eat with us or not. I might have a bit of a difficult time sneaking it past Arthur without him figuring out you are here though. He’s been worried sick about you. We both have. But he’s been getting any information Norway passes on, and he’s been keeping it from me so I don’t worry more than necessary. I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“I w’nt t’ eat w’th the two of you. You b’th d’srve t’ kn’w why, as m’ch as I d’n’t w’nt t’ rel’ve th’t.”

“Don’t push yourself, Berwald. If you’re not ready, then you’re not ready.” He glances down, and his brows furrow. “What’s that?” The Swede jerks his hand off his lap, and stuffs the envelope into his pocket.

“N’thing.” Francis sighs.

“Oui, alright. You don’t have to tell me. I’m here if you need to talk.” He’s greeted with silence. “Right! Our tea.” He takes a sip from his own mug. Berwald drinks half of his in one fluid motion.

“D’d Arth’r leave th’s h’re?” The taste causes fondness to pool in his stomach. He tilts his mug toward his nose and closes his eyes, taking in the smell.

“Oui. He has some here so he doesn’t have to bring any from home. I don’t think two cups will be too much of an issue.” He watches Berwald for a long moment. His expression is very content. He’s glad something could help. “Especially since you look better now that you’ve had some. Happier. I know Arthur won’t mind two missing servings if he knows it helped you.” The larger man grunts softly, and puts his mug down.

“Ev’ryone keeps t’lling me he’s been w’rrying. ‘M d’ne hearing th’t. A year ago, he d’dn’t c’re th’t I ex’sted. N’w he’s w’rried ab’t me? Why? It’s n’t l’ke I m’tter t’ h’m.” Francis’ stomach drops. He very much wants to tell him how wrong he is, but it’s up to Arthur to decide when and if he wants to tell him. A peculiar expression crosses Berwald’s face. “I d’n’t m’tter t’ you eith’r.” Francis slams his mug down.

“You don’t know that!” The Swede flinches back heavily. Francis is immediately filled with regret. “I didn’t mean to yell.” He sighs heavily, dropping his head into his hands. “Why do you think that? Arthur and I have tried our best to help you. Of course you matter to us.”

“Or are you p’tying me?” Francis’ head snaps up.

“Berwald. Why would you even think that? We care about you. Of course we care about you! Pity was never on my mind. Besides, do you really think pity would last this long? Be rational in your thoughts. Please.” He carefully grabs Berwald’s hand and squeezes. He looks absolutely defeated. He brings his hand up and cups his cheek. “Would I do this if I were pitying you?” He leans in and presses a soft, sound kiss to his forehead. He pulls away slowly, smiling at him.

“Nej,” he mumbles out, cheeks flushed crimson. His heart rate picks up at the touch. “I th’nk n’t.” He gives Francis a tiny smile.

“There we go! Look at that shy smile. Do you feel better now? I promise we both care about you. I can’t speak for Arthur, but pity never crossed my mind. I can guarantee he doesn’t feel any now though. We’ve spoken about it. Well, not exactly that topic, but the conversation was about caring for you.” Berwald’s heart aches. Why did he have to fall for Francis? “You should rest. You look exhausted. Go. The bed in the guest room is made up. Wash yourself if you need to. Some of your clothes are still here. Do whatever you feel you must.”

“Tack. You are too k’nd.” He finishes off his tea and stands, stretching himself out a bit. He turns toward the kitchen so he can put his cup away, but Francis clicks his tongue at him.

“Let me get it.” He rises quickly, and rushes to take the mug from Berwald. “Don’t push yourself too hard. And I don’t care if you think it’s not pushing yourself, I think it is and I would like you to rest. Can you please do that for me?” Francis watches the determination drain from his eyes. He gives a small nod of defeat, and makes his way to the guest bedroom. The Frenchman sighs in relief, sips on his tea until it’s gone, then takes the set to be washed.

~

Despite being told numerous times by Francis to let himself in, Arthur knocks on the door to his boyfriend’s house like a true gentleman. He puts on a proper smile as the door opens. He fills with pride and satisfaction when he hears a soft gasp from Francis. “Mon Dieu! Arthur!” The Brit hands him the bouquet of a dozen red roses. He happily watches the blush creep up his neck, over his ears, and spread across his cheeks. “Merci! They are very lovely.” He sniffs them, a broad smile on his lips. “They smell wonderful. Merci beaucoup. How thoughtful of you. Come here.” He pulls him in for a kiss. Arthur’s mind clouds over with pure bliss. The kiss is over too soon, causing him to pout. “Arthur. Don’t do that. I’ll want to kiss you again.”

“That’s sort of the point, Francis.”

“As much as I would love that, there’s someone else here. I feel like you’re going to be happy he’s here.”

“Oh? And who might that be?”

“Follow me, mon amour.” He grabs Arthur’s hand, and practically drags him into the kitchen. His eyes widen slightly when he sees Berwald standing there. He runs to him and wraps his arms around him tightly.

“Berwald! You’re here! You’re alright!” He squeezes him more. “I was so worried about you! I’m so glad you’re okay and healthy.” He pulls away reluctantly. He doesn’t want to let go, but he also doesn’t want to overcrowd the Swede. He can’t help but smile when he notices the blush on the other’s face. Cute. He has to resist the urge to reach out and brush his thumb over his cheek. He shakes his head slightly, and turns to Francis. “Thank you for making dinner for us. And thank you for coming back, Berwald.”

“It w’s t’me f’r me t’ c’me b’ck.” He bows his head, embarrassed. He watches Francis fill a vase with water and put the roses into it. He adds flower food to the water, and puts it in the middle of the table. He focuses his attention back on Arthur, who’s a blushing mess. It briefly crosses his mind just how cute the Brit can be when he’s not arguing, but he shoves that away faster than it came. He has feelings for Francis, not Arthur!

“I’m glad I could make dinner for my two favourite boys. I love you both. Now fix your plates so we can eat!”

~

Berwald closes his eyes lightly. He can feel Arthur and Francis staring at him expectantly, but not seeing them gives him comfort. He can almost imagine he’s about to explain things to thin air. Almost being the key word there. “Your saus’ge r’minded me of M’thias’s cook’ng. It m’de me w’nt t’ h’ve an’ther f’mily week. B’t th’n I r’memb’ered th’t w’ld mean seeing T’no again, and…” He shakes his head hard. “L’kas t’lked t’ me ab’t th’t th’s m’rning. He w’s trying t’ be h’lpful, b’t he said the wr’ng th’ngs. He g’ve me th’s fr’m T’no.” He opens his eyes and tugs the envelope out of his pocket. “I’ve n’t read it y’t.” He looks Francis, who is closest to him, in the eyes. “‘M afraid t’,” he admits quietly. “I th’nk it’s an ap’logy. B’t ‘m n’t ready t’ f’rgive h’m.” He turns his head away. Someone takes his hand and squeezes.

“You don’t have to forgive him the moment you read the letter. Forgiveness takes time. I think you should read his words and decide from there. Neither of us will blame you if you don’t forgive him. What he did was wrong. Right, Arthur?” The Brit startles a bit, then nods quickly.

“Exactly. Opening an apology letter doesn’t automatically mean you forgive the person that wrote it just because you opened it.” Berwald looks like he’s going to cry. The sight of it makes his stomach twist up painfully. He deserves to be happy.

“Ja. I s’ppose you two are r’ght.” He forces himself to smile, and Arthur’s heart pangs guiltily. He’s half the reason he’s even considering opening a letter that could cause him immense pain. He watches the Swede break the seal, hands shaking slightly. He has to bite the inside of his lips to stop himself from attempting to convince Berwald they’re wrong.

“Take your time. We’ll even leave the room, if you would like?” Francis starts to release his hand, but he grabs for the warm comfort.

“Nej. Please st’y.” His voice is so weak it hurts.

“Of course,” Arthur whispers.

“As you wish, dear,” Francis says with a smile. Berwald takes a deep breath, and starts reading. His expression stays neutral, but his eyes flash emotions wildly. Fear, pain, distaste, vulnerability, confusion, and remorse. Arthur’s heart aches. It’s not fair.

Berwald reads over the note three times before the words register in his mind. He calmly looks up at Arthur and Francis, who are staring at him. He forces a smile at them. “He w’s k’nd w’th h’s w’rds.” He lays the letter in his lap.

“That’s a good thing, right? He wasn’t bitter toward you.”

“I need s’me air,” he tosses the paper on the coffee table and scrambles out the front door.

“That went worse than it could have,” Arthur cuts in calmly.

“At least he’s not gone.” He glances at the letter. “I wonder what upset him so badly?”

“Francis no. Don’t read it without his permission.” The Frenchman sticks his bottom lip out in a pout. “Do not look at me like that. You know it’s an invasion of privacy.”

“I suppose you’re right. I can at least try asking him.” Arthur opens his mouth to argue that is not a good idea, but he’s already opening the door.

“Francis! Get back in here right now!” He pulls his head back inside, a mischievous smile on his lips. He bounds over to the table and snatches the paper up.

“We’re allowed to read it!” He clears his throat. “‘Berwald, I hope this letter finds you well. I must admit, I am a bit nervous giving Lukas this to pass on to you. I am sorry for what I did to you. But you never bothered to ask how I felt or what I wanted. You were constantly assuming. Though we were both in the wrong. I could have easily said something long before blowing up. I apologize for that. You were just doing what you thought was right. I see that now. I know you will do better with whoever you come to love next. I’ve been watching you from afar, and it makes me happy to see how much you’ve changed for the better. I do not regret the time we spent together, but I do regret how it ended. Could you ever forgive me? I look forward to spending family time with you again someday. Sincerely, Tino.’” His face falls. “That was kind? Oh Berwald…”

“Finland blew up at him? No wonder he’s been skittish.” Arthur stares at the door. “I feel bad for fussing at him now.”

“I want to tell him we’re polyamourous.” The Brit jerks his head around to gape at Francis.


	8. Chapter 8

“What? Why on Earth would you want to do that?”

“I saw something in his eyes this morning. I kissed his forehead in an attempt to make him feel better, and I… I think he might have feelings for me, Arthur. He was practically beating himself up, but he stopped being stubborn after the kiss. His blush was deeper than normal. And he just obeyed my wishes after that. That’s weird, right?”

“It is a bit odd. You know how to read his eyes the best. But if you think he has feelings for you, then he likely does.” Arthur forces himself to smile. “I’m glad he’s starting to move on.” Francis rolls his eyes and slings his arm around his shoulder.

“As if I’m going to get with him without including you. You figured out your feelings for him first. I’m not going to ignore that because I’m mostly certain I know what he feels toward me. I am still unclear on his opinions about you, but I won’t get with him unless he’s willing to be with both of us. He used to resent you, but he’s far from that now.” His eyes widen slightly. “Do you think he acted like that because he cared about me, even back then?”

“You are not going to sacrifice a relationship with someone you like if he doesn’t like me as well. And it’s hard to say, but I suppose it is a possibility.” The other nods softly. He slips his arm off his shoulders and grabs his hand instead. He practically tugs him toward the door. “Where are we going?” He doesn’t answer, just opens the door. He stops once they’re outside though. Arthur’s heart nearly shatters at the sight of Berwald. He’s sitting in one of the chairs on the porch, head in his hands, arms wrapped around his legs tightly. He looks utterly defeated. Arthur has to look away, for fear his heart might actually break. Finland’s letter must have really hurt him.

“Berwald?” The Swede grunts in response. “Will you look at me?” He doesn’t move a muscle. “Alright. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He sits in the larger seat nearby. Arthur sits next to him, but not too close. He can tell Francis is about to tell him about their being polyamorous, and he doesn’t want to come off as jealous. Mostly to ease Berwald’s mind about it, but also because he’s not. They both love the Swedish man very much. “I’m sorry about Finland. I don’t think his words were as kind as you seem to think, but you know him better. It also appears as if it ended with a lot of hateful words, so you could be comparing now to then.” He takes a soft, steady breath. “If you still love him, and you think he might still love you, I might know how you could be with him without breaking up his new relationship.”

“Francis,” Arthur hisses in his ear. He didn’t know that’s how he planned on bringing it up! “You’re an idiot.” But his words get a reaction out of Berwald. He plants his feet on the porch, and his head is slightly tilted up. His glasses are in his lap, and it’s obvious he’s been crying.

“Trust me. Please.” The Brit huffs. This is going to do the opposite of what they want.

“Fine. I trust you,” he grumbles.

“Merci.” He clears his throat, and raises his voice back to normal. “It’s called polyamory. Someone or multiple people in a relationship has so much love to give, they love more than one person at a time. Romantic love, not family or friendship love. That can exist in monogamy as well. I hope it exists in monogamy.” Berwald furrows his brows in confusion. “Right! Monogamy is two people loving each other romantically and only each other. Polyamory isn’t cheating. Everyone in the relationship knows about it and is okay with it. Unfortunately this means Finland and his new lover would both have to agree to it.” He continues to stare at Francis. No movement isn’t bad, but isn’t necessarily good either. “Most polyamorous relationships are closed, with three or more people all loving each other. But it isn’t unheard of for there to be… a chain, for lack of a better word. One person loves another, who loves them back, but also loves someone else. That is the one you would be asking Finland for. If you want to, of course.” The Swede shakes his head slowly.

“You kn’w a l’t ab’t th’s.”

“Arthur and I have agreed we are polyamorous. Currently we are officially monogamous, but we both have feelings for someone else. The same person, if you were curious about that. But neither of us wants to be overbearing, and we know polyamory isn’t as common as monogamy.”

“We are unsure if they are even... accepting of polyamory. We hope they are though.” A smile slips past his defenses, onto his lips.

“Who are th’y?” Berwald’s face lights up ever so slightly. Or is he hallucinating?

“That’s not important right now. Would you like to ask Finland about this?” Francis' voice is gentle. The Swede’s face falls, and he promptly shakes his head.

“Nej. T’no w’ld n’ver… He needs t’... Nej. It’s n’t any ‘f th’t. I j’st d’n’t w’nt t’. I th’nk it’s t’me t’ m’ve on. W’ll, at least try t’ m’ve on. I st’ll h’rt fr’m the w’y th’ngs ended, b’t I am heal’ng. I no l’nger h’ve feel’ngs f’r h’m.” Arthur turns his head and fake coughs into his shoulder to hide his excitement. Francis nudges him.

“Shush. You’ll give us away,” he murmurs. Then, a bit louder, “That’s wonderful to hear, Berwald. I’m happy to hear you’re over him. I only wish the pain of the breakup weren’t so vast. You deserve to be happy.” Berwald flushes, and busies himself with putting his glasses back on. Once he’s finished, he gives them a small, shy smile.

“Tack f’r m’king me feel b’tter. I needed th’t.” He rubs at his cheeks. “N’w you h’ve me int’rested in who the b’th of you c’ld p’ssibly l’ke.”

“They have blonde hair,” Francis teases. “But that’s all you’ll be getting out of me.”

“C’n you at least g’ve me if th’y are a h’m or h’r?” Arthur muses the question for a moment, then nods.

“I think we can do that, right Francis?”

“Oui, indeed we can. After all, it won’t narrow it down too much.”

“He is a very lovely man.”

“I have to say I agree completely. He is absolutely stunning. As are you, mon amour.” He takes Arthur’s hands in his and presses a kiss to his lips. Berwald looks away quickly. Now is as good a time as any to start thinking about who it could possibly be.

It’s definitely not Tino. Their conversation about him ruled that possibility out. Perhaps Mathias? He does have a certain charm about him. But he’s loud, so maybe not. Not that there’s anything wrong with being loud. Francis and Arthur just don’t seem to be people that would fall for that. Lukas? His calm and mysterious personality can act like a beacon sometimes. He places him on a mental list for later. “Berwald. Now that you’re feeling better, would you like to join us inside? We can make dessert together. Francis has me wanting to try something.” Arthur grabs his hand cautiously. His heart skips a beat. This time, he doesn’t feel guilty for it. Maybe it’s possible he’s polyamorous as well? But that doesn’t mean they like him back. He nods in response to the question, and lets himself be dragged inside.

He knows he has feelings for Francis, but that’s all he’s been allowing himself to acknowledge. There might be something there for Arthur as well that he’s been repressing. But now he can explore that. “Arthur mentioned s’mores. Apparently they’re something Alfred loves. We don’t really have those here in France, as they’re mostly an American thing, but we do have bananas with chocolate wrapped in foil that we put over a fire to cook. Those are good! He wants to try them now, so I thought we could use the fireplace, as long as we’re careful.” Berwald can’t help but smile.

“Ja. Th’t sounds n’ce.” Francis claps happily.

“Perfect! I’ll set everything up.” He hurries to set the wood in the fireplace. The Swede watches him for a long moment, before he’s distracted by Arthur sitting next to him.

“Busy thinking about who it might be?” He flushes crimson. Is he really that easy to read?

“M’ybe a l’ttle,” he grunts out.

“I think you’ll find he’s easier to find than you might guess.” He nudges him lightly.

“Tack f’r trying t’ be reassuring, b’t ‘m pr’bably j’st going t’ overth’nk it.”

“At least no one can say I didn’t try. I’m looking at you, Francis.”

“Mon Dieu Arthur, you hurt my feelings!” The Brit gives him a pointed look. “Okay. Perhaps I would say that. But, as you said, you tried.” They start playfully bickering, and Berwald goes back to all the people it could be.

America has blonde hair. But his personality is similar to Mathias’s, so it’s probably not him? And his brother has blonde hair as well. He glances between the two teasing each other. Canada is too quiet to deal with them, so it’s unlikely. Netherlands? He could deal with them easily. Berwald furrows his brows slightly. Does he even have blonde hair? It’s kind of a brown-blonde. The way it sounds, he presumably has noticeably blonde hair. That leaves Russia, Germany, Switzerland, and Poland. Well, of the ones that are of a legal human age of consent for every country, at least.

Russia can be sweet. Sometimes he has his moments, but who doesn’t? He could easily balance out the two of them. They would be a good fit. He places him in that mental list for later. Alright, moving on to Germany. He’s a bit standoffish, but so is Berwald, and he’s close with Francis and Arthur. The two of them could help him loosen up, and they could benefit from his schedules. He goes to the list as well. Switzerland is… protective. He supposes Francis and Arthur are as well. Just not as fiercely. He does have a certain appeal. They could be admirable together. His stomach twists as he places him on the list. There’s so many they could possibly be in love with. He’ll never figure it out! He sighs and shakes his head. Only one left. Poland. He grimaces at the thought, but continues on, trying to be as unbiased as possible. He’s shy, but he can be demanding and serious when he needs to be. Arthur is comparable to that, and Francis loves him. That could be cute. He slumps back into the couch as he stores the name into that mental list of his. “You look upset.”

“Nej,” he smiles tiredly at Arthur.

“If you’re sure.” He nods, and goes back to the list. There was a second part to their hints. He has to go through Lukas, Russia, Germany, Switzerland, and Poland again. Lovely? Stunning? Lukas is mildly charming, he supposes. He mostly sees him as a brother now, but he can sort of see the beauty he has. He’s always thought Russia is rather attractive, but do Francis and Arthur? He stares at each of them for roughly a minute each. They’re both so handsome. He forces himself to put a pin in that thought. He can think about his newfound attraction for Arthur after he’s gotten as close as he can to figuring out who they both have feelings for. Nej, Russia isn’t really their type. He doesn’t think, anyway. Germany is quite dreamy. He has no idea where that thought came from, but he ignores it. He can see him being their taste. Switzerland reminds him a lot of Tino. He’s pretty, but scary. He can definitely see him and Arthur together in some weird way, but his seriousness might bother Francis. And… Poland. He’s awfully elegant. His sass is perfect to counterbalance both of them.

“You’re going to put a permanent wrinkle between your brows if you keep frowning like that.” Francis pokes his forehead, and tries to smooth down said wrinkle. Berwald’s chest fills with warmth at his touch. He’s incredible. It’s no wonder he fell for him. “There. See? It’s not too hard to stop frowning! I think you should smile more often, not this neutral face. I like it when you smile. We both do.” He motions at Arthur, but before Berwald can turn his head to look at him, he feels something on his shoulder. Francis chuckles. “Looks like he fell asleep. How cute.” He beams at the two of them, then goes back to making the fire.

Arthur’s hair brushes against Berwald’s neck, and his breath catches in his throat. When he’s able to breathe again, he is overwhelmed by the smell of tea and scones. There’s something else in the undertones of the scent he can’t quite pick out, and he inhales again. Is that cinnamon? He rolls his eyes. Of course Arthur smells like cinnamon tea and scones. Why would he smell like anything else? It’s obnoxiously perfect for him. Berwald sighs heavily. Why is he even allowing himself to notice these things? It’s not like he’ll ever say any of it out loud. That would ruin everything. He’s not supposed to have feelings for anyone ever again. Tino was his last love. Yet he’s starting to cherish Francis and Arthur deeply. It’s getting dangerous.

“Would you like to make your own chocolate banana? I’ll have to wake Arthur though. He wants to make his own anyway, so I would have to wake him either way.” He gives him a polite smile and a nod. The man with his head on his shoulder shifts, and wraps his arms around his torso. His cheeks turn crimson, and Francis laughs. “I was unaware he cuddled so soon after falling asleep. That’s rather cute. Here, let me get him off of you. Arthur. Wake up.” He nudges him lightly. “I thought you wanted to make your own dessert?” He grumbles in his sleep, and rolls into Berwald’s lap. The Swede stares wide-eyed at Francis. “Alright, wake up, you’re making our guest uncomfortable.” He shoves him out of his lap, causing his eyes to snap open. He looks between the two, blushes, then bows his head.

“My apologies. Sometimes I do rather brash things in my sleep. Do forgive me.” Berwald’s heart thumps heavily in his chest. Arthur is adorable. And Francis is beautiful.

“Ja, of course.” He smiles shyly at him. At least he’s over Tino. That’s a positive about this situation. Even if he has no chance with Francis—and Arthur, he realizes. He likes them both. At least he’ll be content to see them happy. Even if the one they love isn’t him. Even if that person is Poland, of all the possibilities.

“Let’s make dessert now, you two! Before things get too awkward.” He laughs nervously, and tugs them both to their feet. “Go wash your hands. I’ll follow. We have to get the bananas and chocolate now. And the foil! That’s rather important. It keeps everything from spilling out.” He practically pushes them into the kitchen. Francis washes his hands first, then Arthur, and finally Berwald. The Frenchman smiles at them, and starts gathering chocolate and bananas for their sweets. “And back we go!” He ushers them back to the couch. “Sit, sit!” They obey quietly, and Francis places a tray on the coffee table. “We can use this to put them together.” He lays out three pieces of foil. “There. Perfect! Follow my lead. Use whatever amount of chocolate you would like.” He starts making his own, and the other two observe and mirror his actions. Once done, they carefully set them on a fireplace grill. Arthur flops down on the couch, and Francis follows suit. Berwald cautiously sits between them. They turn their attention to the television, and he decides to go through his mental list again.

Lukas, Germany, Poland. He sees Lukas as their type. Though he’s terribly silent compared to them. He’s not sure he can see them having feelings for him. That’s strangely reassuring. On to Germany. They would be good together. They might not have the best past, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything now. But his schedules and concern for everyone’s diet might clash with them. He also seems rather unconcerned with romantic relationships. So it’s neither of them. It has to be Poland. He can be shy, but they’ve already proven they can handle that. Berwald is wary himself, and they put up with him. And Poland can be sassy, which is excellent for them. They love to tease each other, and he would be the best person for that. He’s obviously the perfect match for them, of the male countries with blonde hair that are lovely and stunning in appearance. The only other blonde he hasn’t ruled out is-

“I think they’re done!” Francis grins at them. “Would you like to pull them out yourselves?” Arthur nods, and takes the tongs offered to him. Berwald watches him grab the foil lump and pull it out carefully. Francis is next, then him. They go on plates he didn’t notice until they were pointed out. “I think I’ll leave the fire going. It’ll be nice. We can watch the fire until we all fall asleep. After we eat our desserts, of course. They have to cool down first though.” He tilts his head back into the couch cushions. Arthur slips his arm behind Berwald, and takes Francis' hand. His brain short circuits, then goes crazy.

Arthur has his arm around him. Francis is cuddling into him. Why? Don’t they have feelings for Poland? They’re being awfully intimate with him. Shouldn’t he feel more guilty? But it’s nice. Maybe he can let himself relax for one night. He lets out a contented sigh, and leans heavily into Francis. Neither of them say anything. After a minute, Arthur practically lays on top of him. It’s pleasant. He could almost fall asleep like this. But they need to eat. Despite that thought, he isn’t able to keep his eyes open.

“Berwald. Wake up. You can’t go to sleep right now. We still have dessert!” He is shaken lightly, and he opens his eyes slowly. Arthur chuckles, and fixes his glasses. “There. Straight again. You’re very-”

“Here!” Francis shoves a plate into each of their arms. “I made sure they were yours. Now open them up! I can’t wait to see your faces! They taste wonderful.” He practically tears into his own foil, and scoops up some of the treat with a fork. He plops it into his mouth and moans joyfully. Berwald watches Arthur’s face turn red, and he knows his own is crimson. That is not a noise he was expecting. Are they that good? He grabs a fork, pries back the foil on his chocolate banana, and cuts a moderately sized piece for himself. Oh. That tastes wonderful. “Look at that! He’s smiling! He’s actually smiling! Arthur, are you seeing this?” He tugs on Berwald’s cheek. “That’s amazing! Wouldn’t you agree?”

“It is rather charming. I like it when you smile. It’s very flattering on you.” He gives him a small smile. Berwald’s heart skips a beat at the sight. He’s beautiful. Both of them are. “Oh! This is wonderful!” Arthur giggles as he takes another bite of the sweet. It’s a sensational sound. He grunts, and focuses on eating the rest of his own treat. He needs to stop getting distracted!

When their stomachs are full and the supplies are put away, Francis puts on a movie. They’re sitting together, but he’s still beside Arthur. When they get to the climax of the movie, Berwald has an idea. He can just text Lukas for advice! _Francis and Arthur told me they’re polyamorous. They have feelings for someone who’s male, has blonde hair, and is ‘lovely’ and ‘stunning.’ Their words. I narrowed it down to you, Germany, and Poland, but it’s more than likely Poland. But I think I might love them. I don’t want to get in the way of this other person though. Should I tell them, or keep it to myself?_

Judging by how fast he texts back, Lukas is annoyed. _Firstly, you are absurd. YOU have blonde hair as well, Berwald. I bet you didn’t think to include yourself when you were going through every man with blonde hair._ Ja, very annoyed. _Secondly, I’m sure it’s not me. Germany doesn’t make much sense either. I don’t even want to know why you think Poland is the most likely candidate. Thirdly, I think you should do what you are most comfortable with._ The Swede sighs heavily. He’s right. About it being up to him, not the Poland thing. But he doesn’t have the confidence. Maybe if he’s sure it’s not Poland first… “Francis? Arthur?” He waits for them to look at him before continuing. “Is P’land the one you b’th l’ve?”

“What? Why would you ever think that?”

“Mon Dieu! Berwald, non! Of course not!” He flushes and turns his head away. It’s embarrassing that he was wrong, but his stomach is filled with butterflies. Lukas might be right. It could be him! “Have you really been thinking about it that long?”

“Francis. I’m tired of hiding it. Let’s just tell him. The way we discussed.” He nods solemnly, and they both shift to face Berwald. They kiss both of his cheeks, one each, and as they pull away, Arthur whispers in his ear. “It’s you, Berry.”


	9. Chapter 9

Berwald stares at the two of them, stunned. He shakes his head slightly. That can’t be right. Why would they have feelings for him? He’s done nothing to warrant it. “Nej,” he practically whispers. “It c’n’t be me.” He furrows his brows. “Why?” He rubs at his temples harshly. “I need fr’sh air,” he grumbles out as he stands. He practically runs to the porch. It’s dark outside. The moment he closes the door behind him, he can hear Francis and Arthur arguing. It causes his heart to ache.

It’s not like he doesn’t have feelings for them back. He cares about them deeply. But it can only ever hurt to be in love. He forces himself to take a deep breath. He doesn’t have to think about that right this moment. The stars catch his eye. Perfect distraction. He starts searching for constellations. There’s the Little Dipper. And Ursa Major. Orion. It’s not like love has ever been kind to him! The Crown. The Unicorn. Finally he can see the Big Dipper. The light pollution must be down tonight. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to see so many stars. A content smile falls across his lips. It reminds him of Aurora Borealis. It feels like he can see every star in the universe when he’s waiting for the Northern Lights. In his mind’s eye, he can almost see them there, hanging over France. It’s a beautiful sight he knows will likely never happen.

The house behind him is silent. When did he get off the porch? His feet must have moved on their own to get a better view of the night sky. The Charioteer. The Swan. Leo the lion. The stillness unsettles him, and he turns to face the house. The door slams shut, and he sighs. Of course they were watching him. He trudges to the porch swing. He could sleep outside. It might be a bit uncomfortable, but it’s better than the awkward atmosphere inside. He takes a moment to steady the swing before laying on it. His mind wanders back to imagining Aurora Borealis over France. Isn’t that more proof they shouldn’t be together? Francis and Arthur might not ever know what it’s like to have something so beautiful over their countries. He screws his eyes shut tightly. But it is technically possible it might happen. Shouldn’t that possibility make it clear he needs to give love another chance? Even the Northern Lights could travel this far south.

“Berwald?” He jumps at the soft voice. “Sorry to startle you.” He hears the door close gently, and Francis sits at his hip. “You aren’t planning on sleeping out here, are you? At least go to the guest room. You don’t have to talk to either of us. Arthur isn’t very happy about it, but I had him agree not to say anything. Or ask questions. Take as much time as you need to process. We aren’t going to rush you.” He pauses, presumably for a response, and sighs when he doesn’t get one. “I know you think love can only bring pain, but that outlook is… less truthful than you might think. Love is always positive. It’s the other emotions that can happen that make it seem awful.” Berwald tilts his head as far away from Francis as he can. He won’t listen to such nonsense. “I can see that got nowhere. Alright. Think about it like this. You love Denmark and Norway and Iceland, don’t you?” He nods once. “Despite all of the bad history between you. True love only knows kindness. You’ve shown you can love. Endlessly. Why are you denying romantic love? You got hurt a few times. So what? Who hasn’t! Learn from it and move on when you are able to. Don’t give love a bad name because you’ve had bad experiences.”

“Sh’t up,” the Swede snaps at him. It comes out harsher than he wants it to, but his voice wavers with tears. He doesn’t want to listen to what Francis is saying. He won’t! Fingers comb through his hair, and his anger melts away.

“Désolé. Je t'aime. I spoke out of line. You’re still hurting. Tell you what. If you would like, we can burn that letter from Finland. We can burn anything that reminds you of him that you don’t want. It’ll be therapeutic. Then take all the time you need to realize it wasn’t your love that caused the pain, but the breakup. Sometimes, when you love someone enough, it can hurt to think of them without you. It’s perfectly normal to have that reaction. He might have damaged you mentally a little bit, and I can’t promise that will ever go away, but I can promise Arthur and I will do our best to make it better.” He doesn’t snap this time. That’s reassuring. Francis rakes his fingers through his hair more. “I don’t know what happened before Finland, but you didn’t let it get you down when you got with him. One more relationship was all you had before swearing off love forever? Berwald, look how strong you are!” He pokes at his bicep to make a point. “You just need help pushing this pain away. We can do that. I’m not asking you to make a decision tonight, or anytime soon, but I am asking you to give us a chance to show you what you will be missing if you decide not to be with us. Please don’t be irrational and push us away before we even have a chance to show you that. We love you very much.”

Berwald almost believes him. Almost. It would be wonderful to be loved and love without fear of it disappearing suddenly one day, but Tino took that ability from him. He might regain it, some day, but he doubts it. Though one offer does sound appealing. The other doesn’t sound like something he can deny. Even if he does, he knows they’re going to do it anyway, so there’s no point trying to stall it. “B’rning the l’tter s’nds w’nd’rful.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “And m’ybe a f’w cl’thing it’ms. B’t those are b’ck h’me.”

“We can make a special trip. Or you can bring them back with you after your next visit to Denmark, Norway, and Iceland. I imagine you’ll want to spend more time with them again soon. Besides your disagreement with Norway, you seemed pretty happy this morning. I can only imagine that’s because of your time with them.” Berwald nods slightly in response. “Oh good! You’re acknowledging me now. I’m not going to push it. Even if you won’t socialize, will you at least come inside? Sleep in the guest room. Not out here. My mind would be more at ease if you came inside with me.” He rises, and deliberately walks toward the door. The Swede grunts as he stands, and follows a too-happy Francis inside.

“God natt, ‘m going t’ b’d,” he announces as he passes by. Arthur opens his mouth to say something, but it dies on his lips when he sees how defeated Berwald’s demeanor is.

“Good night. Sleep well,” he settles on instead. Francis rolls his eyes once the larger man is out of the room.

“At least you didn’t question him out loud. Be glad he wasn’t paying any attention to your expression. You would have scared him off, and then everything I just said to him would have been useless.”

“I’m sorry.” He bows his head. “I wasn’t expecting this. I thought he would tell us if he loves us back or not immediately.”

“I know you were. I, however, was not. I should have told you that before letting him know.”

“No, I’m glad you didn’t. I would have done something sooner or later that would have revealed it. I’m not the best at hiding my emotions.” Francis chuckles.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Is that sarcasm I hear?”

“But of course, mon amour.” He smirks at Arthur. After a moment, they both laugh.

“I’m glad he knows now, but how are we going to prove to him that love isn’t painful, like he thinks? I don’t know how much longer I can go looking into those eyes and not kissing the daylight out of him.”

“I want to kiss him too, but getting him to associate love with positivity has to happen first. And I think I have the perfect idea for our first attempt at that.” He grabs the Brit’s hand, and pulls him into the kitchen. “We’re going to make him some heart shaped cinnamon buns! He’s not been observing Fika very much during all of this, and I think it could give us a big boost in the right direction if we fill his first one in a long time with love.”

“We should make him coffee with a heart in it too.”

“Oui! I love that idea!” He pecks Arthur’s lips, then spins him around the room. “As much as I want to dance some more, we should get started.” He tugs his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll look up a traditional Swedish recipe for them.”

“And I will wash my hands, then start pulling out the ingredients as you read them off.” He turns the faucet on, already doing the first part of his task. It doesn’t take Francis long to find a recipe, thankfully, and they get to work.

Once they are shaped and put in the oven to bake, Arthur kisses the Frenchman hard on the lips. He raises his eyebrows at his lover and pulls away smoothly. “Are you trying to get me riled up?”

“What if I am?” He bats his eyes at him innocently. Instead of replying, he steals a kiss of his own. “Mmm, just what I wanted.”

“Oh shush, or you won’t get your makeout session.” He nods, and doesn’t say any more. He does wrap his arms around Francis though. As they kiss, he winds up pressed against the counter. “Up,” is growled at him, and he obeys without question. He’s not even completely steady before his lover is attacking his neck with kisses. He tangles his fingers in his hair and tugs lightly. The kisses switch to nips, which quickly turn into sucking. Arthur tilts his head back, lips parted, eyes closed. His mind clouds with love and pleasure. Francis manages to make three dark, very obviously placed hickeys before the timer for the cinnamon buns goes off.

“Dammit,” he mumbles as he pulls away. He gets a kiss to his forehead before the warm body is gone. He pants quietly, trying to regain his breath, as he watches his lover withdrawal the sweets from the oven. “You tease,” he breathes out when he shakes his ass.

“What about it? It’s not like you’re going to do anything.” Arthur would very much like to do many things! But he knows he can’t. Not with Berwald in the house. That could mess up their idea of getting him to correlate love with positive things. “Want to help me put the icing on these?” He smiles brightly at him.

“What sort of question is that? Of course I do!” He goes over and kisses his neck. They both start icing the cinnamon buns, side by side, arms brushing against each other every few seconds. It’s absolutely perfect.

~

Berwald doesn’t wake up until the room is filled with sunlight. He begrudgingly opens his eyes with a groan. He doesn’t want to face them. Not today, not ever. But his coffee urge is too strong, and the house is already filled with the aroma, so it isn’t long before he’s dragging himself toward the kitchen. What he isn’t expecting is Arthur and Francis sitting at the table, staring at the doorway like they are waiting for him. They probably are. He cautiously sits at the plate set out for him. “God morgon.” He glances down at the cinnamon bun, and frowns. Why a heart? Maybe it will make more sense after he’s had coffee. He picks up the mug with both hands, enjoying the heat radiating from the ceramic. Before he can take a sip, he notices a heart resting on top of the liquid. Is that latte art? “Wh’t are you two up t’?”

“Absolutely nothing, I cannot fathom why you would think we are up to something.” Real graceful Arthur.

“Ignore him. He’s not sure where the middle point of not being overbearing but also showing we care for you is.” Francis shakes his head, smiling a bit. “This is our first attempt at showing you love is a good thing. You like coffee and cinnamon buns, right? It’s even the proper time for Fika.”

“You w’ke me up.”

“Oui. I pulled the curtains away at a calculated time. I thought you might be in here within five minutes. I was pretty accurate. I’m glad you didn’t run away in the middle of the night. I was afraid you might.”

“Don’t tell him that, Francis. He might actually run away now.”

“Arthur, non, he won’t.” He jerks his head to look at Berwald. “Right?”

“R’ght,” he mumbles. “I w’n’t r’n aw’y.” He quietly removes the tip of the cinnamon bun heart and places it into his mouth. He tries to ignore the two watching for his reaction, but they’re staring intently. The shape is ridiculous, but it tastes wonderful. He sips at the coffee. It’s pretty good as well, and it smells amazing. “St’p st’ring at me.” He takes another bite of the cinnamon bun. Okay. This isn’t working. “F’ka is also ab’t s’cializ’tion. We sh’ld do th’t.”

“What do we socialize about?”

“Arthur, don’t be rude.”

“Nej, it’s n’t r’de at all. Anyth’ng really. M’ybe h’w th’ngs are going? A r’cent s’ccess?” He glances between the two. Francis' hair is a bit fluffier than normal, but it looks good on him. It probably hasn’t been brushed yet. Arthur’s hair is impeccable, as always, but he has three bruises on display. One just below his right ear, another a bit further down, where his shoulder and neck meet, and the third at the base of his throat. It takes him another bite of the sweet pastry before he realizes they’re hickeys. He’s filled with the urge to add two more, just to mirror the other side, but he refuses to move a muscle. If it’s only because he has a want for them to be symmetrical, he shouldn’t do it. They have the nickname ‘love bites’ for a reason. His mind lulls back into the conversation casually.

“Oh! Those custom crochet hooks and knitting needles came in! Awhile ago, actually, but this is the first time we’ve both been here since they did. I wanted to give them to you in person. You still owe me something.” He blushes suddenly. “Only if you want to, of course.” Berwald can’t help but chuckle.

“I pr’mised. Of course I’ll st’ll m’ke you s’mething.” It’s always easier to work through his emotions when he’s working with yarn anyway. Emotions. Right. “C’n we b’rn T’no’s l’tter and th’se cl’thes t’day?”

“Oui, I believe we can do that. Though how are we going to get the clothing?”

“I m’ght h’ve asked L’kas t’ s’nd th’m ov’rnight aft’r our c’nvers’tion l’st n’ght.” He bows his head, feeling awkward.

“That’s good!” Silence. Francis sighs. “I’m serious, Berwald. It shows you’re ready to get rid of the pain he caused. That’s a big step forward. I hope it helps you learn to love again. Properly this time. No worrying about getting hurt. Worry stops anyone from expressing how they truly feel.” The Sweden scrunches up his nose ever so slightly in distaste. “Okay. I promise today will only be about getting rid of the negativity surrounding Finland and the breakup. We can work on the other thing later.”

“Or n’ver,” he says under his breath. He’s already sworn never to love again. Just because he might have feelings for Arthur and Francis and they definitely love him doesn’t mean he should give it another chance! But is that fair to them? He watches them out of the corner of his eye. Arthur is smiling while he’s speaking, and he’s fidgeting with his fork. There’s nothing left on his plate but icing and crumbs, but he’s still holding it and moving it around like there might be something there. It’s cute. Francis has abandoned his half-eaten cinnamon bun for the coffee. His fingers curl over each other perfectly, and his laughter makes them tap against the mug delicately with each new chuckle. He’s beautiful. He tilts his head down and finishes off the nice Fika they made for him.

The second he’s done, Berwald darts off toward the sitting room. He throws the front door open, startling the postman. Impeccable timing. “Merci,” he declares roughly. His pronunciation is nowhere near perfect, but at least it’s understandable. He goes through the customs to get the box filled with clothes that remind him of Tino. Why is he so excited to receive them again? Francis comes up behind him.

“Ready to start? We should go around the house. Let’s start with the letter first. I’ll start an actual fire for the clothes.” That’s why. He takes a deep breath, and nods.

“Ja. We c’n do th’t.” He hugs the box close to his chest. None of the clothes hold any sort of significance to him. They’re mostly button ups Tino often stole from him to wear around his house without anything else on. Possibly the occasional sweater or T-shirt. They’re all long enough to cover everything but still be teasing. It feels like his torso is going to burst from the memories. “C’n I h’ve t’me t’ look at th’m? One m’re t’me?” As an afterthought, he adds, “Al’ne.”

“Of course, cher. Take as much time as you need. I’ll take Arthur to build that fire.” He pops inside long enough to grab said man and pull him outside, to the back. Berwald takes a deep breath, sets the box on one of the seats, and pries it open.

The button up on top is plaid. Why did he ever buy something so unlike him? A memory floods his mind, and he lets out a quiet laugh. Tino convinced him it would look nice on him, only to steal it after he wore it once. He puts it aside, and stares at the blue sweater beneath it. It’s faded a bit, and there’s holes where Tino used to place his thumbs. The edges around them are still frayed from being worn through. The next is a black button up; a dress shirt. It was Tino’s go-to tease shirt, since it’s shorter than the rest. A white one underneath that used to be his lounging shirt. A navy T-shirt that is too big for even him is next. It always slipped off Tino’s shoulder, exposing his collar bone. Another button up, this time yellow. He knows for a fact he never wore it, but Tino was damn cute in it. He always looked like a buttercup when he was wearing it. The memories are nice, but the stabbing pain that comes after each one is more than enough for him to want to burn them all. He carefully pulls the yellow one out of the box, but something slips onto the now-bare cardboard, out of the lapel pocket. He picks it up, and his jaw trembles with the sudden surge of emotion.

It’s a necklace. The chain is silver or silver plated, he can’t remember, but that’s not the important part. The pendant is the real treasure. It’s a resin heart, with colour swirls inside meant to mimic Aurora Borealis. He had forgotten about it. Until now, it had been lost and missed. He unclasps it, shakily settles it around his neck, and locks the claw back. It was custom made long ago. All of the Nordics have one. It’s a reminder that, no matter how far apart they may be, there will always be something to draw them back together. He rests his thumb in the middle of the heart, right where his fingerprint is. Unique but united, even when troubled. Why was it in a shirt he’s never worn? More than likely to keep him from losing it. He never wants to take it off again. He’s not going to risk losing it a second time. He closes his eyes and smiles brightly for the first time in over a century. He finds hope in the Northern Lights. That’s what they have always been to him, and that’s what they will always be. And a phenomenal place to clear his head. Watching them, he only ever thinks about what matters. An image of Arthur and Francis laughing, playing in the snow flashes in his mind. That would be the perfect place to go to clear up his feelings about them!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ⚠️ F slur for homosexual men used once ⚠️

Berwald tucks the shirts back into the box, and starts toward the fire Francis and Arthur are making. He gets a few steps past the door before remembering the letter needs to be burned as well. He pops inside long enough to grab it, and continues on his way. He takes a deep breath when the two men come into view. They haven’t seen him yet, and they’re talking about him. “You don’t have to change how you act around him, Arthur. I know you don’t really know how to react to all this, but-” The Brit turns his head and spots him.

“Berwald! We weren’t expecting you so soon.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “You didn’t hear any of that, did you?” His cheeks are flushed. The Swede shakes his head softly, not having the heart to embarrass him more.

“Nej, j’st the w’rd ‘but’,” he lifts up the box slightly. “Is the f’re b’g enough y’t?”

“Oui, I think so.” Francis takes Arthur’s hand and they take a few large steps away. “We’ll be right here if you need anything. But we also want to give you some privacy.”

“Tack. Th’t means a l’t.” They both nod, and he forces his attention on the flames. He crumples the edge of the letter, then smooths it out against the box. He doesn’t dare read a single word again. Instead, he holds it out, and watches a corner light. The flame travels quickly, blackening the paper, then falls into coals. He releases it just before the fire can touch his fingers. His stomach drops with it, but he can’t stop now. He’s started the process, and he refuses to stop until it’s completed. He knows he’ll feel much better afterward. Eventually.

He takes a moment to think through which shirt will hurt the least to get rid of, and which will hurt the most to. He’ll get rid of them in that order. After careful consideration, he pulls out the plaid shirt. It was never either of their colour anyway. He tosses it onto the flames, making sure not to smother them. He stares at the burning fabric, but he doesn’t feel guilty for putting it in that position. Maybe this will be easy? Probably not, but he can hope. Next is the yellow one. Tino was very cute in it, but it doesn’t have too many memories attached to it. It only slightly stings when he watches it turn into embers. He fishes out the navy one. He clenches his jaw at the thought of what he’s about to do to it. The first two went easily, but this one has happy makeout memories tied to it. His chest twists in pain. None of those are happy anymore. He lowers it into the fire.

He peeks at Arthur and Francis out of the corner of his eye. They’re pressed tightly together, but clearly watching him. He can almost feel support radiating off of them. It gives him enough strength to throw the black dress shirt into the flames without thinking about it. He freezes when he realizes what he’s done. Tino’s signature tease shirt. More often than not, it wound up on the floor. He was wearing that shirt when Berwald first found out he can be very fiesty. He shakes his head quickly. Go. Away. Memories. He looks at the two left, and tugs out the white button up. It’s got so many good memories tied to it, but it’s got plenty of bad ones as well. Arguments, silent treatments, destruction… But they always ended in kisses and cuddles. Not this time. He throws it into the fire.

He spins around to face the two watching him. Before they can say anything, he holds up the sweater. It’s colours are patchy, and there’s a few spots on the hems that are stained or frayed. It’s obvious it’s been loved. Almost every date was spent in it. “H-h’lp,” he begs weakly. They rush over faster than he thought possible, and pull him into a sound hug. He sort of melts into it. He knows it’s likely they’re supporting most of his weight, but he doesn’t think he can stand without them. “Tack.” He closes his eyes and wills back the tears.

“Take as much time as you need,” Francis whispers. Arthur feels him grab his wrist, and he lifts his hand up to Berwald’s hair. He catches on quickly, and runs his fingers through the silky strands. He blushes when the Swede settles his head on his shoulder with a sigh. His heart rate picks up, and he hugs him tighter.

“We’re right here. We’ll support you. I promise.” He can feel the gratitude coming off the man in waves. He so desperately wants to kiss him. Not for himself, but to make him feel better. He’s not going to pretend he knows what it feels like to be doing this, but he’s going to try his hardest to sympathise properly. After what feels like roughly five minutes, Berwald pulls away very slowly. He kisses his cheek, then Francis'. Arthur can feel his cheeks heating up. He wants to hide the blush, but it’s more important he not look away from the larger man. He can take as much support as he needs.

“Tack you two. Really.” He hugs both of them, then turns back to the fire. His stomach lurches, and he has to swallow hard to stop himself from throwing up. He tosses the box into the flames, and sets the sweater on top of it. It hurts too much to put it directly into the heat. A hand squeezes his shoulder reassuringly, and he jerks his head around to see Francis by his side. Arthur scrambles to step closer and throw his arm around his waist. He diverts his attention back to the burning cardboard and fabric. When the last of it turns from embers to coals, he feels weirdly light. Realization hits him. “You sly-”

“It took you long enough to figure out this was my attempt at a Viking funeral without the water.” Francis says with a laugh. Berwald rolls his eyes, but gives him a quick hug anyway. Then, because he’s pouting, he gives Arthur a hug as well. The corners of the Brit’s lips lift into a bright smile. His mind catches on the image for a long moment. He doesn’t smile often. It’s an honour to get smiled at by him. Right? Should he thank him? But what if that’s making a big deal out of it, and he never gets to see that smile again because of it? His opportunity to say something without it being awkward passes, and he switches to a new topic.

“Would you two l’ke t’ go do s’mething?” He bows his head shyly.

“Oui! That sounds wonderful! We could go out for a meal tomorrow?” Arthur huffs softly. Francis isn’t very observant, is he?

“I think Berwald had something specific in mind. What is it, Berry?” He hopes the nickname is alright. “If I can call you that.”

“I d’n’t m’nd,” he mumbles, trying and failing to hide his blush with his hands. It’s annoying when Mathias does it, but it’s charming when anyone else calls him that. Especially someone he has feelings for. Well, non family feelings anyway. His uncertainty reminds him of his idea, and the topic at hand. “Would you l’ke t’ v’sit m’ h’me? You d’n’t h’ve to if you d’n’t w’nt to.”

“Of course we would love to! Oui, this will be wonderful! When should we go? Tomorrow? That sounds perfect! Tomorrow it is!” He skips around happily.

“No. Not tomorrow. At the earliest we can go the day after tomorrow. We both need to pack for this trip. After we discuss how long it is going to be. And I need to go home to pack, because I do not have my winter coat here.” Berwald can’t help but chuckle.

“You need s’meth’ng th’cker th’n th’t. Both of you. I’ll g’t th’m.” Arthur opens his mouth to protest. His winter coat is completely fine! It’s definitely thick enough! But Francis beats him to it.

“He might be right, amour. He knows the weather there better than we do. And we aren’t as used to it as he is. We should get him to make a list of the things we’ll need, then we can worry about packing tomorrow. And I’m sure he will be willing to help us find anything not easily accessible to us in Sweden.”

“Oh alright. But we don’t leave until the day after tomorrow, at the earliest! I have to tell my brothers where I’ll be, and figure out which one to put in charge that won’t completely destroy our countries.” He shakes his head. “They’re why I spend most of my time over here anymore.” Berwald wondered if that’s why he’s always here, but he never dared say anything.

“Oui! Now let’s get planning!”

~

Berwald checks over his mental list for what feels like the hundredth time. He’s got proper winter clothes for Arthur and Francis at his house. Mathias, Lukas, and Emil are all aware of what he’s doing and know not to drop in for a visit if they want to survive. He’s got plenty of yarn at home, just in case he wants to work with it while they’re here. He might offer to teach them as well, if they want to learn. Francis' plane is coming in a few minutes before Arthur’s, so things aren’t awkward between them. It’s not Arthur’s fault he wasn’t expecting Berwald to be so unsure of how he feels back. He won’t be alone with Francis for more than thirty minutes, and most of that is going to be spent in worry he didn’t pack right.

He looks around the airport. It’s been a long time since he’s been in one this big. He doesn’t normally travel from Stockholm. He loves his capital, but he’s a rather private person. Arms are thrown around him, and he snaps back to the present. He slowly brings up his arms to hug Francis back. “You m’de it w’ll I see.”

“Oui, I did!” They get a few glares. Others smile supportively at them. He hopes no one decides to say anything to them. Or ‘take matters into their own hands.’ It doesn’t really bother them, considering how long they live, but it can be discouraging to any of the humans around.

“Did you p’ck enough w’rm cl’thes?” He grabs at his suitcase, but Francis pulls it away from him.

“Non. You are not unpacking my stuff in the middle of an airport.” They bat at each other’s hands for awhile, before a voice cuts in and stops their fake fighting.

“Get a room, faggots!” Berwald rubs his temples, and sighs. Why do rude Americans think they can be hateful in his country? He wants to take care of them himself, but he knows he shouldn’t. Especially considering the angry Arthur that’s stalking toward the person. Shit.

“Arthur! Nej!” He runs after him, and scoops him up. He whirls around and plants him down in front of Francis. He crosses his arms over his chest and whines. “Sh’sh.” He scrunches his nose at him, and he kisses it. His expression switches to shock, and the Swede chuckles. “Good b’y.” He ruffles his hair.

“Oh don’t you ‘good boy’ me! And you did that to embarrass me. Well I won’t be embarra-” Francis kisses him, and his cheeks turn crimson.

“Mm. N’t emb’rrass’d at all.” He grabs both of their suitcases, and starts walking. He’s glad it didn’t bother them too much. Besides Arthur running after the idiot. The two wind up on either side of him, complaining about him taking their luggage. He ignores them, and doesn’t stop walking until he’s at his vehicle. He places them in his trunk, and hops into the driver seat. Francis and Arthur sit together in the back, probably so they can make out as he drives.

Berwald takes a deep, somewhat shaky breath when he parks at his house. He hops out and goes to get the suitcases. “Nej,” he mumbles out when they try to take them from him. He carries them to his door, unlocks it, and drags them inside. It’s smaller than Francis' place. He made sure the place was bare minimum when he got it. It keeps unwanted guests out, and it stops him from making too much furniture. But it means… “I only h’ve one b’droom. Are you okej w’th sh’ring the b’d? I’ll sleep ‘n h’re.”

“What? You can’t sleep in here. There’s only a couch in here. You can’t sleep on that for a week!” Arthur’s concern is apparent in his voice. Berwald shrugs softly.

“I’ve d’ne it b’fore. It’s n’t an issue.”

“You’ve done it before? Non, unacceptable. You need to take better care of yourself.”

“It w’sn’t on p’rpose. I g’t wr’pped up in m’ kn’tting. It’s a n’ce bl’nket.” Francis shakes his head, speechless. Arthur sets his jaw.

“At this rate, we’re going to have you move in with one of us because we’re concerned about your wellbeing. Making something isn’t worth sleeping on the couch.” He bristles, and takes the suitcases to his room without another word. He’s able to take care of himself. They don’t need to treat him like a child. There’s a soft knock on the door. “Berwald? I’m sorry. We’re just worried about you. If you think you can handle it, then you can. Francis and I tend to mother a bit, especially when it’s someone we love.” There’s that word. It’s so simple, only four letters long, not hard to say at all, but he can’t even get himself to think it anymore. Arthur says it so easily. It hurts his chest to think about. How can he have feelings for someone that just throws the word around? It’s supposed to be reserved for people he truly cares about. Maybe it is. Maybe he’s just unlucky enough to be loved by someone so amazing. He’s not sure what they see in him, but they’re persistent about it, so he might not be as boring as he thought.

“M’ther ‘a b’t’? Try a l’t.”

“Okay, we mother a lot. But we only do it because we’re worried. It doesn’t mean we don’t think you can handle what you know you can. Sometimes we don’t think before our worry is spilling out through our mouths. I’m sorry. Please open the door. I’ll try harder, I promise.” He stares at the door for a long moment. He’s going to regret this, but he opens it.

“D’n’t ch’nge. You w’ldn’t be you th’n.” The smile he receives reassures him. He wants to hug him, but he forces himself to walk over to the closet instead.

“P’t on your w’rmest l’ng sleeve. Both of you. We’re going s’mewh’re.”

“Won’t we need our coats as well?” The Swede shakes his head, and pulls out two hangers. Proper snow equipment rests on them. Arthur’s jaw drops, but he closes it quickly.

“T’ld you it w’ldn’t be w’rm enough.”

“Where exactly are you planning on taking us?” He smirks, and puts a finger up to his lips. He sets the hangers on the bed, and goes back to Francis.

“Go ch’nge.” He goes without question. Once he disappears behind the door, Berwald slips on his heavy coat. He’s used to the temperatures so he wears less, but he doesn’t dare wear too little, no matter how hot it is. “P’ck f’r overn’ght! And l’t me h’lp you w’th the gl’ves!” He pulls his own out of his pocket, but doesn’t put them on yet. The two come out of his room, grumbling about the bulky clothing. “You w’nt t’ freeze?” They shake their heads quickly, and fall silent. He quietly walks over to them and shows them how to properly put their gloves on, then nudges boots toward them with his foot. “Sn’w boots are h’lpful, ja?” He slips his own on, and watches as they do as well. “L’t’s go,” he grabs a big bag of snacks, drinks, and a camera sitting on top. He grabs a second bag with camping equipment, and they’re out the door within a minute.

“You still haven’t said anything about where we’re going,” the Brit says nervously.

“And I w’n’t,” he replies shortly as he puts the bags in the vehicle. “Th’s one’s sn’cks,” he grunts out as he places it in the passenger seat. “G’t c’mfort’ble. It’s a l’ng dr’ve.” Arguably their drive to his house was rather long, but this one is slightly longer.

~

When Berwald finally lets them out of the vehicle, Arthur feels small. That’s the best way to describe it. The scenery is absolutely stunning, and everything is so massive. There’s mountains everywhere, and there’s rivers and creeks and lakes that never seem to end. He had no idea the sky could be so blue, or the grass so green. He inhales deeply, and almost chokes on the freshness. It’s starting to snow, and there’s already some on the ground, but it’s more beautiful than annoying. He glances over at Francis, who appears to be in just as much awe as he is. Berry isn’t even looking at them. He’s too busy setting up the tent. Though he’s sure he took the opportunity to watch their expressions when they first got out. “Your land is beautiful,” he breathes out. He laughs a bit at the puff of steam that comes out of his mouth. It feels surreal. How is he here? London feels like a completely different planet. Earth is amazing.

“Where are we again?” The Swede chuckles. He knew they would be like this. It’s wonderful.

“Abisko N’tional P’rk.” He finishes setting up the tent, and starts clearing out an area for their fire. Night will fall soon, and they need to stay warm. Once it’s cleared, he hauls some wood from his vehicle, and carefully lights it. He brought plenty, but he doesn’t want the fire to be too bright when the show starts.

Arthur’s eyes widen when he looks up. The sunset is stunning, but the stars! He never knew there were so many stars! “Francis! Look! Look! They’re so bright!” He hops around excitedly, pointing at the sky. The fresh snow crunches underfoot, and he beams. “Look at how many there are!”

“W’ld you l’ke me t’ sh’w you s’me c’nstellat’ns wh’n it g’ts a b’t d’rker?”

“Please!”

“And merci. Be polite, amour. I know you’re excited, but keep your manners.” He pulls the bouncing man into his arms, and kisses him deeply. He melts into him, and immediately calms down. The kiss feels extra special because of their surroundings. Everything is more than perfect. But there’s something confusing him. If Berwald isn’t sure of his feelings for them yet, why did he bring them to such a romantic spot? It’s criminal that he can’t kiss him as well.

They watch the falling snow for an hour or two, sitting by the fire. Berwald was sweet enough to bring S’mores supplies for Arthur, and chocolate banana supplies for Francis. He manages to make himself a cinnamon bun and coffee over the flames, much to their amazement. The Swede is staring into the fire when it starts. He stumbles out of his chair at the first hint of green glinting off the snow, and drags the other two with him. They complain at first, but he silences them with a “Hush,” and a finger to the sky.

It’s mesmerising. Aurora Borealis is more beautiful than Arthur and Francis ever could have imagined. They stare at the light show for what feels like forever, but can’t be more than an hour.

Meanwhile, Berwald is clearing his mind. It’s incredibly easy with the Northern Lights happening. He just knew they would show tonight. They always come when he needs them. They come when any of them need them. And not just the Nordics. Any country that has the lights appear somewhere over their land can always trust them to come when needed. Once his mind is clear, he focuses his attention on the two sitting next to him. His chest hurts suddenly, but in a pleasant way. He recognizes it as love. The fear of getting hurt is still there, but he can’t deny it any longer. “Arthur, Francis?” His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper.

“Oui?”

“Yes?” He takes a deep breath.

“I l’ve you b’th. So m’ch.” He bows his head quickly, cheeks alight with a blush. “‘M st’ll afraid of g’tting h’rt. B’t m’ love outw’ghs th’t n’w.”

“Merci for telling us. I promise to do my best never to hurt you.”

“I promise that too.” Arthur looks over at him. “Did you bring us here for this?”

“N’t ex’ctly. The l’ghts m’ke it easier t’ f’cus on wh’t’s imp’rtant. Th’t’s the two of you.” He tilts his head up and gives a shy smile. “C’n we try th’s p’lyam’rous th’ng? I w’ld l’ve to be w’th both of you.” Francis raises a brow at Arthur. It’s his turn to take the lead, as they discussed.

“Of course we can try it. We love you. We’ll be as patient as we need to be with you.” Berwald nods. After a moment, he starts to fidget. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“Mm, I am. It’s j’st… The l’ghts are so r’mantic. It w’ld be a sh’me n’t t’ k’ss.” That’s all the encouragement they need.

“Francis and I have discussed this.”  
“Oui. I think Arthur should get the first kiss from you, since he realized his feelings first. After these two, any order will do.” The Swede blushes more, and nods. He looks up at Arthur, who is now sitting next to him. He pulls the shy man close, and kisses him soundly on the lips. It doesn’t last long, perhaps ten seconds, before he’s pulling away. He doesn’t want to overwhelm him. But it was nice. Really nice. He’s smiling like an idiot when Francis pulls Berwald in for a kiss.

The kiss with Arthur was better than he was expecting, and he was expecting amazing. It caused a spark to ignite in his stomach. And the current kiss with Francis is wonderful as well. He pulls away after the same amount of time as Arthur, and smiles at him. Butterflies flutter through his entire body. “Jävla helvete,” he murmurs.


End file.
